


Bulletproof

by campingwiththecharmings



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2450693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campingwiththecharmings/pseuds/campingwiththecharmings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(CS vigilante AU) You'd think a city with a name like 'Storybrooke' would be a happier place, and maybe it used to be, but these days greed, corruption, and injustice are what make her tick. There are no happy endings here, not anymore. Emma Nolan is fighting to bring them back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This idea has been ratting around in my brain for literally months. It was more or less inspired by the TV show Arrow and, to some extent, Batman (because Batman is awesome, okay). Anyway, here's to hoping I can pull this off lol.
> 
> (Un-beta'ed)

Emma Nolan crouched near the edge of the building as she carefully surveyed the surrounding area. The man she’d been tasked to apprehend had given her the slip three times already that evening and she was, to say the least, aggravated. She hated tracking marks through this ramshackle part of the city; too many places to hide. Several years prior, there had been a particularly devastating earthquake that had resulted in the area being cordoned off with the _intention_ of a government-funded reconstruction but, naturally, the deal had fallen through. This resulted in several blocks of abandoned buildings and hundreds of displaced people. The area (referred to by most as the Ruins) had since been reopened and had been unofficially “claimed” by the thieves and lowlifes of the city, including one Ignotus Gold, the city’s most ruthless (and untouchable) crime boss.

Needless to say, this was no place for a cop.

_Not that one would ever come here in the first place_ , she thought in mild annoyance.

_No one other than you, that is_ , reminded a voice in the back of her mind.

Emma wasn’t the typical Storybrooke police officer. Save for a handful, most were in Gold’s pocket, making justice in this city mean something other than what Emma had been raised to believe. Her older brother David was the Captain of her precinct and while she knew he would rather die than work for someone like Gold, she also knew how things in this city worked, had seen it unfold before her very eyes during her few years with SBPD. David carefully straddled the line between right and wrong and she knew that there had to have been times where he’d, for whatever reason, chosen to look the other way.

Perhaps it made her naïve or idealistic, but Emma wasn’t about to let someone guilty walk free.

Not after what had happened to her mother.

It was these convictions that resulted in Emma’s presence in the Ruins this evening.

“I don’t see him, Jones, are you sure he went this way,” she quietly asked her partner (who was currently three blocks south of her in their non-descript surveillance van).

“ _Of_ course _, I’m sure, Swan. When have I ever steered you wrong?_ ” Jones responded defensively.

“I told you not to call me that,” Emma replied gruffly, ignoring his question entirely.

She registered the sound of computer keys clicking as he retorted, “ _Ah, but it suits you so well. I’ve yet to see anyone kick someone’s arse as gracefully as you manage to._ ”

Emma rolled her eyes but said nothing, instead choosing to carefully scan the street for their target once more.

“Yeah, well, it makes it sound like I’m some kind of, I don’t know, superhero or something. I hate it,” she replied petulantly.

“ _I think the black, leather get up and the mask do that all on their own, love,_ ” Jones answered with a chuckle, still typing away.

Emma was about to reply back with a witty quip, when a sudden movement in the alley across the street made her pause.

_Gotcha_ , she thought with a smirk as she moved back from the lip of the building to the ladder that lead below and began to climb down.

“Target reacquired,” she whispered into her ear piece as she silently made her descent, “Prepare to standby.”

“ _Be careful, Swan_ ,” Jones cautioned, his lilting voice laced with a gentleness he seemed to reserve just for her.

“Always am,” she said quietly, ignoring her butterflies (that were most definitely due to her current situation and most certainly did _not_ have anything to do with her partner).

When she’d reached the ground, Emma checked her belt for her handcuffs, thankful that she hadn’t left them in the van as she had on their last job. Readying herself, she crept to the edge of the passage, allowing the shadows to cover her as she set her sights on the man across from her; he was tall, of lean build, with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. His name was August Booth. He’d been arrested a year ago on a kidnapping charge but, at the time, the evidence the detectives had against him was somehow “lost” on its way to the property room; they’d been forced to let him walk. Hours after his release, he’d disappeared and hadn’t been seen since.

Until now.

She watched as Booth nervously fidgeted in his hiding place and when he turned away from her, Emma seized her chance. She darted suddenly from her place in the shadows, her eyes locked on Booth. She wove herself around the few obstacles in her path (mostly debris that was never cleared after the earthquake) and was almost on him when he turned again, spotted her, and took off down the alleyway.

_Not again, you bastard_ , she thought resolutely _._

She followed as he shot around the back of a building and made a beeline for him as he clambered up a nearby ladder, Emma hot on his heels. She scrambled up as quickly as she could, watching as he scrabbled over the edge of the building when he reached the top. Emma grumbled to herself and prepared for the ambush she was sure to receive when she reached the top.

The second her head cleared the top of the ladder, she knew she was right to assume the worst as she was greeted with the sight of Booth breathing heavily and wielding a pipe he’d presumably found discarded on the roof. He swung the pipe at her seconds later, giving Emma almost no time to duck away. Luckily she’d still had both hands on the railings and managed to steady herself when her boot-clad feet slipped off the rungs in her haste to not be bludgeoned to death.

She must’ve screamed, because suddenly Jones’ frantic voice was filtering through her ear piece, “ _Emma, are you alright?_ ”

“I’m fine,” she said breathlessly after steading herself, “Just a bit startled.”

Jones didn’t reply as Emma started up the ladder again, this time arming herself with one of the expandable batons she occasionally brought on missions (normally she just used her fists but you could never be too careful). Booth came at her again when she reached the top but Emma was ready for him, blocking his hit with the baton in her right hand. She missed the look of mild surprise on his face as she used the rod to shove his pipe away from herself. Booth stumbled back as he lost his balance and Emma, seizing what might very well be her only chance, hastened up the rest of the ladder and onto the roof, now brandishing both of her batons.

Time seemed to slow, if not come to a halt completely, as they faced each other, respective weapons at the ready.

“Finally ready to stop running, Booth?” she asked calmly, prepared for any sudden moves on his part.

Emma watched as Booth studied her, clearly caught off guard by her ensemble.

“You’re her,” he responded, voice laced with disbelief.

“Yep,” Emma said, quirking an eyebrow at him, “And I’m going to need you to come with me.”

This seemed to shake him out of whatever awe her appearance had set upon him, his shocked expression transforming into his usual cocky one as his eyes scanned her from head to toe.

“You’re not a cop,” he stated simply as he studied her.

“ _Not tonight, anyway_ ,” said an amused Jones, causing Emma to smirk.

“No, I’m not. Hence the mask,” she replied sarcastically while gesturing toward her face.

Returning her smirk with one of his own, Booth cocked his head, twirled the pipe he still held in his hand and said, “Well then, I don’t have to do anything you say, do I?”

“No, you don’t,” she agreed as she threateningly twirled her batons, “But it’d be in your best interest if you did.”

He inched toward her slightly, smirk still planted on his handsome face, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Emma’s eyes flashed at his taunt, “Trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to find out.”

Apparently that was all Booth had needed to hear as he chose that moment to make his attack. He moved toward her suddenly in an attempt to catch her off guard, his weapon at the ready. In lieu of deflecting his blow as she had before, Emma simply took a step back. He mirrored her steps and made to attack her again, clearly aggravated that she wasn’t fighting back. Emma wasn’t averse to fighting (she rather enjoyed it, truth be told, hence the vigilante act) but this guy had already outsmarted her more than once and she didn’t fancy the idea of fighting him blindly. So, she bided her time, studied him (and the fact that his anger was causing his moves to become sloppy was also a plus).

A few more checks and Emma decided that she’d seen enough.

When he came at her again, he’d aimed the sharp side of his pipe at her midsection (admittedly a much larger target than her head). Emma caught his weapon between her crossed batons before quickly twisting it away from herself. She used the rod in her left hand to whack him on the ear (pain was always an effective distraction) and then used the one in her right to smack the hand clenched around the pipe. Booth dropped it on reflex and she wasted no time kicking it out of his reach. Before he could recover, Emma threw her shoulder into him, hitting him in the chest, and used her body weight to knock him to the ground. Once down, she quickly grabbed his right arm and dug her foot into his neck in an effort to keep him subdued.

“I told you that you didn’t want to find out,” she said, twisting his arm enough for it to be painful but not enough to break it.

Booth howled in pain as he futilely attempted to push her off with his free arm. Emma dug her boot into his neck a bit more as a warning. The move stymied his cries of pain (as well as his useless flailing) long enough for her to crouch down and cuff him. Once bound, she allowed his arms to drop but kept her foot on him as a precaution.

“Got him,” she panted as she caught her breath, “Let’s make this drop and head home.”

How Emma got him down the ladder without both of them falling to their deaths, she would never know but ten minutes later, there she was trying to stuff him (now blindfolded) into the back of hers and Jones’ van.

“Need a little help, Swan?” Jones asked as he casually leaned against the side of the van, amusement lacing his tone.

Emma glared wordlessly at him as she tried once more to shove Booth into the vehicle. Jones chuckled and strutted toward her.

“Alright, alright, no need to beg,” he teased, waving her off before he roughly grabbed Booth by the hair and pulled his head back. Emma threw him another glare as the action caused the man to yelp in pain.

“What the hell are you doing, we’re trying to be stealthy here,” she scolded, moving toward him, “ _This_ is why you’re banished to the van.”

Jones huffed a laugh and smirked at her, “No, love, I’m ‘banished’ to the van because I’m the only one that can hack into the security feeds.”

The glare she threw in response caused Jones’ smirk to widen. Emma rolled her eyes and motioned toward the open (and still empty) van. “Let’s take this show on the road, shall we?”

Chortling in victory, Jones shoved Booth toward the open doors and watched gleefully as he tripped and fell inside with an “oomph” before quickly shutting the doors. Smirk intact, he turned toward Emma and raised an eyebrow.

“Was that really necessary, Killian?” she asked, her jaw clenched, hands finding her hips.

“Aw, you’re no fun, Swan,” he responded, his handsome face contorting into an overly dramatic pout, “Why should you be the only one that gets to indulge in a spot of violence?”

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment before the phone in Killian’s pocket vibrated loudly, effectively disrupting the moment.

Emma sighed and pulled a hand through her hair, averting her gaze as Jones pulled out his phone.

“It’s a text from Red,” he said simply, throwing her a glance.

Emma nodded and made her way to the driver’s side of the van. When she and Killian were both situated, Emma shifted the van into drive and silently steered the vehicle toward their drop point (the Toll Bridge on the north side of the city).

Red was already waiting for them when they arrived. Emma quickly checked to make sure her mask was still in place before she turned to Killian in the passenger seat.

“Stay.”

Killian threw her an aggravated look, “I’m not a bloody dog, Swan.”

Emma only raised an eyebrow at him before she opened the door and exited the van. She made quick work of getting Booth out and hauling him over to Red’s black, generic SUV. As she neared, the back right window rolled down to reveal the woman herself. Ruby Lucas (nicknamed “The Big Bad Wolf” by the papers) was Storybrooke’s toughest prosecutor. She was clever, beautiful, and _ruthless_. Ruby was the only attorney in the entire city with the guts to take on Gold and his thugs, so she and Emma (or rather, “The Black Swan,” as the papers called _her_ ) made an arrangement: Emma would help Ruby track down evidence or witnesses (such as slime bags like Booth) that she needed for some of her tougher cases and in exchange, Ruby would help Emma take down Gold when the time came (that time being when she had the evidence she needed).

“You’re late,” Red said flatly.

“Apologies, he put up more of a fight than I had anticipated,” Emma replied sharply.

She and Red momentarily shared a wordless look before the latter broke away and instructed the man in the passenger seat to help with “the package.”

Fifteen minutes later, Emma watched as Red’s car drove off into the darkness. She sighed in relief and walked back to the van.

“Just another day in paradise,” Emma muttered cynically as she sat down in the driver’s seat and took off her mask.

“We’ll get there, Swan,” Killian said softly.

Emma regarded him from beneath her lashes as she fiddled with the strap on the mask. He had _that look_ , the one he got when he was reliving some deep, dark part of his past. He must’ve been thinking about her, the woman he’d lost, _Milah_. Emma could practically feel the sorrow rolling off of him.

“We will, Killian,” she said finally, looking him straight in the eye with all the conviction she could muster, “ _I promise_.”

Killian smiled and nodded, scratching the space behind his ear (something she knew he did when he was feeling uneasy).

“What’s say we get home, yeah?” Killian said, stealing a glance at his watch, “I don’t know about you, but my shift starts bright and early in, oh look at that, three hours.”

Emma chuckled and started the engine.

“Please, you IT nerds have much more forgiving schedules than us officers,” she teased, pulling their van away from the bridge.

“Us IT ‘nerds’ make your job a hell of a lot easier and you know it,” Killian retorted playfully.

 “Yeah, yeah,” Emma said airily, steering the van out of the Ruins and toward the heart of the city.

Twenty minutes later, their van was parked and covered in a parking garage down the road from their base in the abandoned Storybrooke clock tower and Killian and Emma, now in street clothes, were walking down the sidewalk toward her car.

“You did good tonight, Swan,” Killian said, affectionately nudging her shoulder with his fist.

“Aw, thanks, Jones,” Emma replied facetiously, “As usual I couldn’t have done it without you and your awesome van-sitting skills.”

Killian smiled and rolled his eyes at her, a serious look crossing his face suddenly, “Very funny. I mean it, though, you really held your own. It’s been a while since you went on a job without Mary Margaret as back up. I only wish I could help you the way she does.”

Emma stopped walking and turned to him, “I don’t need you be Mary Margaret, Killian,” she began sincerely, “I need you to be…well, _you_. I know I make a lot of jokes, but you really are a valuable member of this team, and for more than just your tech skills. You do know that, don’t you?”

Killian’s face was unreadable as his eyes searched her face (for what, she didn’t know, but she hoped he found it).

“I do know that, Swan, and I’m happy to help in any way I can but… _you_ know that the team isn’t the only reason I’m still here, right? It might’ve started out that way but there’s something…else now. Something _more_.” Killian averted his gaze momentary and began to fidget. He swallowed and earnestly met her eyes, “Do you understand what I’m saying, Emma?”

Emma wordlessly held his gaze, struggling to keep her face as impassive as possible (because she _did_ know what he was saying, and God help her, she wasn’t ready to acknowledge it out loud just yet).

“I should get home,” she said finally, leaving his question unanswered.

Disappointment clouded Killian’s features as he tore his gaze from hers and nodded. “’Course, Swan,” he said softly, “Drive safe.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, Jones,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone that she didn’t feel.

Killian smiled solemnly, clearly not fooled, “Sure thing. Good night, Emma.”

“’Night, Killian.”

Emma sat in her car for a moment and watched Killian turn and walk away in her side mirror. She scrubbed her hands tiredly over her face and sighed. She could admit to herself in the quietness of her mind that there was _something_ between her and Killian but until their job was done, until Gold was brought to justice for his crimes, Emma couldn’t bring herself to let anything compromise their mission. With that thought, she started her car and began her drive home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: These first few pages are back story (sorry), I tried to keep it brief so I do hope it’s not boring lol.
> 
> (Un-beta'ed)

_THEN_

She remembers the day her mother was murdered as clearly as if it had happened yesterday; she remembers what she was wearing, who she was with, where she was, remembers the look on her brother’s face when he’d told her the news. She remembers how angry she’d felt in the months that followed, remembers how she’d let that anger consume her, how she’d let it alienate her from her friends (they just didn’t _get it_ , you know?).

She’d been sixteen at the time, in the midst of her high school career. Her biggest worries that day had been whether or not her crush was going to ask her to prom and passing the final exam in her French class.

Her mother, Ruth, had been a teacher at one of the most prestigious (and, therefore, highly selective) private schools in the state: Ivory Tower Academy. She and her brother David had attended the local public high school, Storybrooke High, and Emma had honestly never wished to be elsewhere (those Tower kids were too high and mighty for her taste). Ruth had been a wonderful teacher, though; she’d taught her students with care, she’d made sure that they understood what they were learning, made sure they had someone to listen if they needed it, or a shoulder to cry on. She’d taught at Tower for five years prior to her murder and had grown close to many of her students along the way.

Emma remembers how packed the church had been on the day of her mother’s funeral and the thought that she had touched so many lives still brought a smile to her face.

That is, until she remembers _how_ her mother died.

She’d bled to death in an alley. _Alone_.

All from a single stab wound to the abdomen. Her murderer was never found and, even now, the SBPD had zero leads.

David had just graduated from college when it’d happened. He’d always dreamed of working for the FBI and was on his way to D.C. for a job interview with his shiny new degree.

He’d never even gotten the chance to pack.

In the end, he’d chosen to stay in Storybrooke, mostly for her sake; she was one year away from graduating from high school and he hadn’t wanted to uproot her (losing her mother had been enough of a shock for both of them). So, he’d joined the Storybrooke Police Department and had worked his way up the ranks. Between her brother and what had happened to her mother, it made sense for Emma to follow in David’s footsteps.

Emma had always been a good student (having a teacher for a mother tended to have that side effect) but having a career goal had made her more determined than ever. She’d worked her ass off during her final year of high school and ended up receiving a full ride at one of the local universities. She studied Criminal Justice (just as her brother had) and joined the SBPD shortly after graduation.

Unfortunately for Emma, being a cop wasn’t everything she’d thought it was going to be (in fact, it was pretty much _nothing_ like she’d thought it would be). Her first day had probably been the biggest let down of all, to be honest. She had woken up early that morning, too excited to sleep. She’d carefully put on each piece of her uniform (she can still recall that new, freshly pressed polyester smell), allowing herself a small smile when she’d finally looked in the mirror. She knew going in that she was probably going to get stuck on the crap shifts with the crap jobs (the hazards of being a rookie), but the thought of working her way up had only thrilled her more.

 _God_ , she’d been so _proud_ , so _excited_ (so _naïve_ ).

She realized rather quickly that the Storybrooke officers who were actually concerned with “serving and protecting” were in the minority. She’d been in the precinct break room having a coffee break when she’d overheard two senior officers talking. Initially she’d chalked it up to cynicism (it happens when you’re constantly exposed to the worst of humanity), but when the perp they’d brought in only hours before “mysteriously” escaped from one of the holding cells, Emma suspected foul play. It happened again and again and eventually Emma became discouraged; this wasn’t what she’d signed up for.

That’s when it had started.

Her third month at the precinct, she’d been banished to organize the records room when the usual clerk was fired for failing to show up for an entire week and had stumbled across a box of cold cases; her mother’s had been among them. Emma had spent hours in that small, dank room that night, reading page after page of her mother’s file. She’d come back every day that she could after that night, pouring over her mother’s case, determined to figure out what had been overlooked.

Within a few weeks, she’d begun to spend most of her free time in the records room, looking at other cases as well as continuing to examine her mother’s; that’s when she’d noticed the discrepancies. In so many of them, there were leads that hadn’t been followed by the detectives in charge of the investigations, witness statements that either hadn’t been taken seriously or were written off immediately, even evidence that had gone missing on its way to the precinct from the crime scene. The cases that really stood out to her, though, were the ones where the cause of death had been the same; a single stab wound to the abdomen, just like her mother.

Emma almost couldn’t believe it when she’d seen how many cases had this connection; how had no one noticed this before? She’d found cases as far back as fifteen years prior with the same M.O. and Emma suspected that the unfollowed leads and missing evidence weren’t a coincidence; someone had _wanted_ these murders to remain unsolved and had gone through a lot of trouble to make sure they did. But why?

She’d brought all of this to David’s attention, assuming he would help her. Emma barely made it through her findings before he was snapping at her to drop it, telling her it was “too dangerous, just let it go, Emma.” She’d been shocked, to say the least; if there was anyone Emma had always been able to count on, it was her brother. She knew his concern was mostly for her safety and Emma appreciated that, she really did, but all Emma could think of was the people like her; the families of the murder victims, the families that didn’t know who had killed their loved ones or why. She wanted closure for them and for herself, felt that they deserved at _least_ that. Despite her own strong feelings, however, she’d tried to do as David had asked (though, it hadn’t stopped her from continuing her investigations).

Emma tried to keep her snooping discreet, knowing that those dangerous people David was worried about were closer than he seemed to realize. Initially she’d kept to herself, observing everyone and everything as she tried to gauge who she could trust. She’d befriended Mary Margaret not long after that; her responsibilities as the precinct’s secretary gave her access to information about basically every officer (as well as any cases they were working on) and anyone (cop or criminal alike) that walked through those front doors. Mary Margaret’s warmth and sincerity had pierced Emma’s defenses, though, and while their friendship had started as a way for her to simply get information, it quickly evolved into something real; they’d spend their days off together window shopping or binge watching tv shows at her apartment and before Emma knew it, she was telling Mary Margaret her deepest, darkest secrets. As it turned out, Mary Margaret had shared her suspicions. Emma had revealed her findings to Mary Margaret then, relieved to finally have an ally in this crusade she’d inadvertently stumbled into. After that, any day off they had together was spent delving into the murders that had mirrored her mother’s.

Mary Margaret had been the one to discover an even larger connection between those murders; one Ignotus Gold. Every single stab victim (save for her mother) had been either an employee of one company or another that was owned by Gold or a known associate. It had all made sense to Emma then; of _course_ those murders were unsolved, Gold was Storybrooke’s richest and most powerful crime boss, he’d probably paid someone to take those people out.

Now all they needed was proof.

Emma had tried the legitimate routes at first, had tried to set up formal, police sanctioned inquiries with Gold and his ridiculous amount of lawyers but, unsurprisingly, the man was untouchable. Within a few days, her apartment had been burglarized. It was a warning. A warning to do as her brother had told her months ago and “drop it.” A warning to show her what Gold and his cronies were capable of, that if she kept digging, they’d make her pay in worse ways. She’d realized then that Gold had too much power, too many friends in high places, and trying to go through the legal channels wasn’t going to do anything but get her killed. She’d pulled back after that, kept the cards she had left to play close to the vest, and waited; she still had every intention of taking Gold down, but this time, she was going to be smarter with her approach (“to catch a criminal, you sometimes have to think like one,” Mary Margaret had told her).

As far as Gold or anyone else knew, however, she’d moved on. She’d thrown herself into every job her superiors had given her, worked harder than any other officer at her level, and eventually began to garner more responsibility. Mary Margaret continued her duties as well and, much to Emma’s surprise, started dating David (who was well on his way to becoming Captain).

Killian Jones had shown up almost a year after Emma joined the SBPD. Emma would be lying if she said she hadn’t noticed him immediately (not that she’d ever admit it to anyone other than herself). She’d observed him from afar initially, which was easy considering they were in two completely different departments. Mary Margaret had actually been the reason that they were even introduced in the first place as he’d shown up to fix something on her computer when she and Emma had been chatting. He’d seemed friendly enough, granting her a warm smile and a handshake, but the look in his eyes had caused her breath to catch; there was a sadness in them that he was obviously trying to hide, a heaviness, one that Emma felt she could relate to. She’d kept a closer eye on him after that, though she never really could admit to herself why.

Another murder is what ultimately ended up throwing everything into motion. Albert Spencer, the city’s former district attorney, was found on the floor of his high-end apartment in a puddle of his own blood; he’d been stabbed in the abdomen and left to bleed to death. When the lead detective on the case failed to procure any hard leads, Emma knew she had to do something. How many people had to die before Gold was brought to justice? She and Mary Margaret had put their heads together that night and came to the only conclusion they could; taking the law into their own hands was the only option they had left.

She’d begun spending every other night chasing bad guys in black leather and a mask shortly thereafter, Mary Margaret as her back up (turned out the woman was quite handy with a bow). They got off to a rough start initially; losing their marks mid-chase, twisting their ankles, almost getting hit by cars, having to explain the occasional black eye to David. But they trained, they studied, they became _better,_ and before long, they were a well-oiled machine. After a few months, the crime rate throughout the city even started to drop. That’s when they’d met Ruby. She’d been new to the D.A.’s office at the time, but just as feisty as ever. To this day, Emma had no idea how she’d figured out how to reach them, but once she had, she’d proposed a deal; she’d told them about how she was planning on being the D.A. one day, told them that she wanted to help heal their city, just like the two of them were. She’d convinced them that they could help each other reach that goal, and thus an alliance was born.

It was one of Ruby’s cases that had resulted in Killian joining their team. Emma had needed his help hacking into some scumbag they were trying to track down’s email account. She’d tried to tell him that it was an ex-boyfriend she wanted to get back at, but he’d seen right through her (“You’re something of an open book”). Once he’d figured out she was trying to play him, he’d refused to help her unless she told him what she was really up to. Seeing no alternative, she told him as little as possible. He’d known there was more, but had accepted her explanation in exchange for his help. But it hadn’t stopped him from following her. In retrospect, Emma probably should’ve seen it coming (Jones wasn’t stupid, after all), but she’d been tired that night and had just wanted to go home so she wasn’t as careful with her route as she probably ought to have been. She and Mary Margaret had been stashing their equipment in Storybrooke’s abandoned clock tower for months, it had become something of a makeshift base for the two of them, and she’d led Killian right to it.

They’d told him everything after that (it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard the rumors of the vigilantes running around the city, he _did_ work at a police station). Once he’d discovered that their ultimate goal was to take down Gold, he’d all but demanded to join them. Ever the optimist, Mary Margaret was all for him joining them and between the hope in her eyes and the determination in Killian’s, Emma couldn’t bring herself to tell him no. They grew to rely on each other in the years that followed, grew closer as a team and, more importantly, as a family.

* * *

  _NOW_

Emma pushed through the front doors of the precinct in her white blouse, black dress slacks, and modest heels, her blonde hair cinched in a high ponytail. She took a quick sip from the coffee cup in her hand as she made her way to the front desk where her best friend Mary Margaret was seated.

“Hey, you,” Mary Margaret greeted with a soft smile, shuffling some of the papers on her desk.

Emma sighed and tiredly returned her friend’s smile as she mumbled, “Hey, yourself.”

Mary Margaret’s smile widened at the blonde’s weary tone. “Long night?” she inquired innocently.

Emma huffed a laugh. “You know it,” she replied, plopping down in the chair beside Mary Margaret’s desk.

“Hot date?” Mary Margaret asked, her eyes full of mirth.

“Oh, yeah. Was on him practically all night,” Emma retorted dryly before taking another sip of her coffee.

Mary Margaret stifled a snort and leaned her sweater-covered elbows on her desk. “I thought you liked the fighters.”

“Not when I have an early shift the next morning, I don’t,” she answered, setting her cup on the desk and shifting in the chair to cross her legs.

Mary Margaret made a noise of understanding and glanced quickly around them to see if anyone was listening. “So, you got him then?” she whispered, leaning closer to Emma.

Emma nodded and smiled. “Yep,” she confirmed lowly, “Handed him off to Red and everything.”

The brunette returned her smile and placed her warm hand on Emma’s forearm. “See, you did just _fine_ without me.”

“Mary Margaret, please,” she said jokingly, rolling her eyes, “We’ve been doing this for three years now. Last night was not the first time I’ve caught a target without you.”

“I know, I know,” Mary Margaret answered, looking away from Emma for a moment as she distractedly adjusted her soft pink blouse, “But you seemed a bit worried yesterday…I just wanted to reassure you.”

Emma stiffened as she bit her lip and averted her gaze. “That’s not what I was worried about and you know it,” she muttered stoically.

There was silence between them for a moment as Emma stared resolutely at the surface of Mary Margaret’s desk.

“I know,” she said softly, taking Emma’s hand in hers.

Emma swallowed and met the other woman’s kind eyes. “You…didn’t talk to him about it?” Mary Margaret asked hesitantly.

Emma shook her head and sighed. “Wasn’t exactly the right time.”

“Emma,” Mary Margaret began, concern lacing her voice.

“ _I know_ ,” she interrupted, her tone firm.

Mary Margaret nodded and squeezed Emma’s hand comfortingly. “It’s almost six,” she said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “Better get in there, you know how the Captain is when someone’s late to his briefings.”

“A pain in the ass is what he is,” she chuckled, grateful for the change of subject.

“Hey, now,” Mary Margaret teased, holding up an admonishing finger, “That pain in the ass is my future husband.”

Emma responded with a laugh and rose from her chair. “Yeah, and he’s my _brother_. I can call him whatever I want.” She grabbed her coffee cup and looked down at Mary Margaret, “Lunch?”

“Lunch,” she agreed, nodding and throwing her a smile.

Emma returned her nod and wordlessly waved goodbye before making her way toward the detective’s bullpen. She wasn’t a detective _yet_ , still technically “in training,” but she was official enough to get her very own desk (thanks in large part to her immediate superior, and mentor, Detective Graham Humbert). She removed the briefcase slung over her shoulder and laid it on the desk before she pulled out her chair and sat. The cheap, faux leather material squeaked as she shifted around in search of a comfortable position and turned toward her desk. Emma unzipped her briefcase and began pulling out various files and loose documents and setting them on the corner of her desk.

“Good morning, Emma,” hailed an accented voice to her left.

Emma smiled to herself briefly and took another sip of her coffee before turning her chair and nodding toward the voice. “Detective Humbert.”

“So informal,” he quipped, shaking his head as he ambled over to her, “I thought we discussed this.”

Emma rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “So sorry, _Graham_.”

Graham sighed melodramatically and stopped a few feet from her desk. “There, was that so hard?”

She smiled amusedly and raised an eyebrow. “Whatcha got there, boss?” she questioned, redirecting her line of sight to indicate file in his hands.

“This,” he began, before holding the folder out to her, “Is your homework.”

“ _Homework_?” she whined, pouting childishly at him.

“Yes,” Graham laughed, placing the file on her desk when she didn’t take it from him, “A bit of light reading.”

“Yeah, right,” Emma scoffed, petulantly stuffing the folder into her briefcase so she didn’t forget it later.

“Okay, people, eyes on me,” a voice suddenly commanded from the front of the room.

“Duty calls,” Graham said, gesturing for her to follow him as he made his way toward the Captain’s office where David stood, a crowd of officers and detectives amassing around him.

David began his spiel, going over all the current open cases and dismissing people here and there once he’d received sufficient updates.

“Jones?” he called suddenly, craning his neck as he looked around the room in search of the Englishman.

“Sir,” Emma stiffened slightly as Killian’s lilting voice answered from almost directly behind her.

“Have you made any headway with the evidence from the Kurt Flynn case?” David asked.

“Yes, Captain,” he responded obligingly, “I should have a full work up within the next few days.”

“Good, good,” David replied, nodding distractedly. “Humbert and Nolan, in my office, please. Everyone else can get back to work.”

Emma swallowed nervously as she followed Graham into David’s office, the feeling of Killian’s eyes on her back causing her stomach to flip. David closed the door behind her as they filed in and stood before his desk.

“First thing’s first,” he began, striding to the other side of his desk and picking up the manila folder sitting in the center, “How’s your training going?”

“Very well, Captain. Emma has shown great progress during my time with her.” Graham answered, his arms clasped behind his back.

A soft smile crossed David’s face as his eyes flicked briefly to hers; Emma felt her face warm slightly at the obvious pride in her brother’s eyes. “That’s wonderful to hear. How close would you say she is to being ready to take the detective exam?”

Emma bit her lip nervously and threw a tentative glance at her mentor.

“Honestly? She was probably ready before I even started training her,” he replied matter-of-factly, shooting a proud smile in her direction.

Emma returned his smile almost bashfully, joy swelling inside her.

David nodded and turned his attention toward her, his gaze softening ever so slightly. “What about you, Emma? Do you think you’re ready?”

Emma straightened her posture and nodded confidently. “Yes, Sir, I do.”

“Very well,” he replied, a full smile spreading across his charming face, “Detective Humbert will set that up for you later today.”

Emma and Graham both nodded in acknowledgement as David handed the folder in his grasp to the Irishman.

“Now that we’ve settled that matter, here’s your next case,” he told them simply as Graham leafed through the documents in the folder. “Any questions?”

Graham shook his head and handed the folder to Emma, “No, Sir.”

“Very well. You’re both dismissed,” responded David, moving to sit in his desk chair.

Emma looked over the reports in the folder as she followed Graham out of the Captain’s office. Another homicide; Caucasian male in his early to mid-thirties, found dead in his apartment. Emma’s breath caught in her throat as she read the cause of death; he’d bled to death after being stabbed in the abdomen.

Graham’s voice suddenly wrenched her from her thoughts. “I can’t believe you’re already taking the exam,” he began airily, nudging her playfully with his shoulder, “You’re going to get that shield and forget all about little old me, aren’t you?”

Emma emitted a shaky laugh and closed the folder in her grasp. “Like you’d ever _let_ me forget about you, Humbert.”

The other officer laughed and clapped a hand on her shoulder, “I really am proud of you, Emma. You’re going to make one hell of a detective. Those bad guys don’t stand a chance.”

Emma rolled her eyes and smacked his arm with the folder. “Stop it, you’re making me blush,” she said sarcastically, stopping in the front of her desk.

“Alright, alright, enough of that,” he retorted, waving a hand at her, “I need to go pick up a few things down stairs before we head to the scene so meet me at the car in about fifteen.”

Emma nodded and watched him walk away. She stood at her desk momentarily, biting her lip pensively when someone shuffled up behind her.

“Fancy meeting you here, Swan,” Killian whispered throatily, so close his chest brushed against her arm.

Emma jolted in surprise, sighing in annoyance when the sound of his amused chuckle reached her ears. She turned herself toward him, intent on sending a harsh glare in his direction and realized too late how close he was standing. She scoffed and backed up a few steps, her legs hitting the drawers of her desk and impeding her progress.

“What the hell, Killian,” she hissed, licking her lips nervously, “Does personal space mean nothing to you?”

Killian’s eyes flickered briefly to her mouth as he stuffed his hands in the pocket of his slacks and laughed again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is a perfectly acceptable distance from which to converse.”

Emma sent him a quick glare and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want, Jones?”

Killian raised an eyebrow and shifted his stance. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I’m just—I’m supposed to be getting ready to leave for a crime scene,” she responded, trying (and failing) not to notice the way his eyes were studying her.

“No,” he said, shaking his head and taking a step closer to her, “There’s something else. What is it? You know you can tell me anything, Emma.”

The earnestness in his tone caused her to flood momentarily with guilt; this was _Killian_ , for God’s sake, they’d been through too much together and had seen so many sides of each other. Why was she letting this stupid _tension_ ruin everything between them?

Emma sighed in defeat and reached for the folder on her desk. She met his eyes as she handed it to him wordlessly.

Killian looked at her confusedly as he accepted the file and opened it. She watched his brow furrow in concentration as he read, his deep, blue eyes flitting rapidly across the page. His eyebrows were raising in surprise a few minutes later, his eyes quickly meeting hers once more in understanding.

“Another one,” he muttered breathlessly. She said nothing and watched as his shock slowly morphed into anger. “We _have_ to end this, Emma.”

“I know,” she agreed, nodding numbly and placing the file down and leaning against the side of her desk.

Killian’s eyes softened as he watched her, his anger melting away almost instantly. “Hey,” he said, lifting her chin with his finger so she’d meet his gaze, “We’ll get him. _You’ll_ get him.”

Emma swallowed thickly as she blinked away the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. “Yeah,” she replied with a sniff.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Killian said after a moment, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and making several swipes across the screen. He allowed a small smirk to grace his features before he turned the phone in her direction.

Emma snorted out a laugh when she saw the picture on his screen; a too-skinny, thirteen year old Killian Jones, decked out in his head gear and braces, complete with thick-framed glasses that looked far too big for his face.

“Oh my God, you poor thing,” she snickered, taking the phone from him so she could take a closer look. “Tell me, do you usually keep embarrassing photos from your youth on your phone and show them to people?”

Killian scoffed and playfully snatched his phone back. “What’s to be embarrassed about? I was _adorable_.”

“Adorably _awkward_ , maybe,” Emma mumbled, her laughter abating.

“Also, no,” he continued, stuffing his phone back into his pocket and adjusting the rolled up cuffs of his dress shirt, “I don’t usually keep photos from my youth on hand, nor do I make a habit of showing them off. My brother's best mate was cleaning out one of his closets and came across some childhood photographs. Thought I’d get a kick out of this one in particular.”

“Did he send any others?” she asked hopefully, biting back a smile at the thought of seeing more photos of a gangly, teenaged Killian.

Killian laughed and shot her an incredulous look. “ _Others_? I think the one is quite enough, Emma. For now, at least.”

She sent him an exaggerated pout of disappointment that made him roll his eyes. A companionable silence fell between them as they both sobered.

“Thanks, Killian,” she said softly, slowly lifting her gaze to meet his.

Killian shot her a fond smile and nodded. “Anytime, Emma.”

Suddenly, Graham’s voice cut across the room. “ _Detective_ Nolan, let’s get a move on, shall we?”

“Yes, Sir,” she called back, gathering her things and turning back to Killian, “See you later.”

He nodded and watched her as she followed Graham out the back door before turning away and heading back to his department.

* * *

 Emma and Graham arrived at the crime scene twenty minutes later. By then, uniforms were filtering in and out of the shoddy apartment, rolling out the crime scene tape and putting down evidence markers, while others canvassed the building for witnesses. Emma and Graham split up upon entering the apartment, looking for any evidence that might indicate who had attacked their victim and why.

Graham reached the victim’s body before her and had managed to find a wallet with an ID; his name was Greg Mendell. When the M.E. arrived, his preliminary inspection confirmed the cause of death as the stab wound to the abdomen and placed the time of death sometime between late night and early morning. The forensics team showed up after that, dusting for prints and collecting the marked evidence. Graham had sent Emma back to the precinct to work on a few of the leads they’d discovered during their inspection about an hour later; so far she wasn’t having any luck.

It was late afternoon when they finally received anything resembling a solid lead. A set of finger prints found at the scene had popped up in the system; they belonged to a woman named Tamara Cerveny. Cerveny was had been arrested in the past for various infractions (mostly theft and drug possession). It took them a few hours, but they’d managed to track her down and bring her in. Emma surveyed their suspect from the observation room.

Her first thought was that Cerveny didn’t look at all like the criminals that usually sat where she was now. In fact, she looked the complete opposite; like a respected professional, neatly dressed in a gray pencil skirt, a light blue sleeveless blouse, and modest heels. The uniforms must’ve picked her up on her way home from work. Her second was of how striking she was; long dark hair, flawless brown skin, rich chestnut eyes that were wide with fear. This woman did have something of a checkered past, but she at least appeared to have pulled herself out of it, seemed to have gone on the “straight and narrow,” as the saying goes. So how the hell did she get mixed up with the likes of Greg Mendell?

Graham wandered over, interrupting her perusal. “You ready?”

Emma nodded and followed him to door to the interrogation room. Graham was sending her in alone, allowing her to take the lead as he watched from the other side of the mirror. Emma gave herself a moment to collect her thoughts, put on her game face, and pushed open the door. The sudden noise caused Tamara to jolt in surprise upon her entry. Any trace of fear in her eyes was wiped away seconds later, however; she wasn’t going to be any easy one to crack.

Emma slowly sauntered over to the table, her eyes trained on the file in her hands. She was trying to make her impatient (impatient people were quicker to anger, and angry people tended to let things slip).

“Ms. Cerveny,” she began after a few minutes of silence, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Emma placed the open file on the table in front of her and trained her gaze on their suspect. Tamara said nothing as she stared intently at an invisible spot on the table. Undeterred, Emma continued.

“You’re here because your prints were found at the scene of a crime.”

Emma paused, studying the woman before her for any tells that she knew what Emma was talking about.

“Is the name Greg Mendell familiar to you in any way?” she tried again, her eyes intent on Tamara’s face.

Her mouth twitched in triumph as the woman’s expression trembled slightly. _Now_ they were getting somewhere.

“You’ve got quite the rap sheet, Ms. Cerveny,” she said, “Breaking and entering, armed robbery, embezzlement, assault…Was Mr. Mendell an associate of yours, perhaps?” she asked, knowing she wasn’t going to receive a verbal response.

Tamara continued to remain silent as Emma rattled off a few more items from her record. Realizing her intimidation tactics were getting her nowhere, she decided to try something else: honesty.

“I’m going to be straight with you, Ms. Cerveny,” Emma began, finally sitting in the chair on her side of the table, “Your fingerprints were found at the scene of Greg Mendell’s murder. That simple fact is all I need to hold you.”

Tamara met her eyes and Emma saw the fear she was holding back creeping through. There was something else in them though, a kind of pain.

“I’m trying to give you a chance to defend yourself, Tamara. Are you really going to go to jail without a fight?” she asked softly, her expression earnest.

Tamara swallowed thickly as she averted her gaze. “I—I did…know Greg,” she said finally, her voice hoarse.

“Okay,” Emma said, nodding and folding her hands on the table in front of her, “How?”

A broken sob escaped the other woman as she fought back the tears clearly pooling in her eyes. “He—he was my boyfriend,” she told Emma, her voice cracking on the last word as the tears began streaming down her face.

Emma slid the box of tissues on the table over to Tamara and gave her a moment to collect herself before she continued on.

“Did you kill Greg, Tamara?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer.

Tamara shook her head vigorously, taking deep breaths through her nose in an effort to calm herself. “No. I loved him,” she replied quietly as she stared blankly at the table once more.

Emma nodded, her internal lie detector confirming that she was telling the truth. “Do you have any idea who did?”

Tamara began fidgeting in her chair at the question and looking anywhere but at Emma. Emma watched as she swallowed thickly, the panic she’d seen in her eyes earlier seeping back in and pushing out the sadness almost entirely.

Emma knew she was going to lie before she even replied. Her entire being was practically screaming in fear. Whoever did this was clearly dangerous.

She waited a few more minutes in silence, hoping Tamara might change her mind. When she didn’t, Emma rose wordlessly from her chair, collected her file, and knocked to exit the room.

She handed Graham the file when he met her outside the door. “It wasn’t her,” she told him confidently, “But she clearly knows who’s responsible. It’s written all over her face; she’s terrified.”

Graham nodded in agreement and turned to the officer by the door. “Put her in holding for an hour or two and then release her. She’s not going to give us anything else.”

“Wait,” said Emma, stopping the officer with a raised hand and turning back to Graham, “Could we maybe put a detail on her? I’m worried that Mendell’s murderer is going to think she talked while she was here and come after her.”

Graham was silent for a moment as he considered her request. He nodded a moment later and met her eyes. “Yes, good thinking, _Detective_ ,” he told her shooting her a small smile before turning to the officer beside them, “You heard the lady.”

The officer nodded wordlessly and walked off to carry out his orders.

“You did good in there, Emma,” Graham praised, practically beaming with pride.

Emma huffed a nervous laughed and looked at the floor bashfully. “Thanks, boss,” she said finally, playfully punching his shoulder.

Graham chuckled at her uncharacteristic sheepishness and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a side hug as they strolled back toward the bullpen. “Come on, I’ll pour you a cuppa. You’ve earned it.” 

* * *

Graham called it a day about an hour later and had left Emma at her desk where she sat pouring over Mendell’s case file (old habits and all that). She sipped on her third cup of coffee as she flipped through the pages, re-reading every piece of information for the hundredth time in search of something she might’ve missed. It was after seven, most of the detectives had either left for the day or were off working on their own cases, leaving Emma more or less alone in the large room. She furrowed her brow as she read over Mendell’s employment history for the thousandth time, trying to figure out what was bugging her about it. The man had been a criminal for most of his life so the majority of the jobs had been at places like the docks and shipyards where they either didn’t do background checks or didn’t care who you were. It seemed that within the last few years, though, that Mendell had turned over a new leaf, much like his girlfriend Tamara had; three years ago he’d been working at a junk yard a few cities over and a year later he suddenly had a stable, seemingly legitimate job at French’s Finds, an upscale antique shop in the northern part of the city.

Emma sighed for the millionth time, at a loss as to what was bothering her. In need of a fresh set of eyes, she rose from her desk, file in hand, and made her way to the Computer Forensics department where she knew Killian still was. Her heels clicked on the tile as she entered through the open door and announced her presence to what appeared to be an empty room. Emma frowned and looked around.

“Killian?” she called, taking a slow step away from the door.

There was a sudden banging noise, followed by a muttered curse in response. Emma bit back a laugh as she walked toward it. She found Killian beneath someone’s desk tangled up in wires and rubbing his head.

“Emma, I should’ve known,” he said, raising an eyebrow in mock annoyance and carefully untangling himself from the wires.

Emma bit back an amused smile and waited patiently for him to rise.  He sighed in relief when he was finally freed, running a hand through his hair as if to straighten it.

“What do you need, love?” he asked, smiling amiably, that ever-present soft look in his eyes.

“I need your eyes,” she sighed, opening the file in her hands and handing it to him, “There’s something about the employment history that’s bothering me and I can’t figure out why. I’ve looked it over so many times at this point the words don’t make sense anymore.”

Killian took the file and scanned the page, looking for the portion she’d indicated. There was a moment of silence as he read over the lines a couple of times, biting his bottom lip in concentration. Finally, he shook his head and met her eyes once more.

“I don’t know, Emma, nothing seems out of the ordinary to me,” he told her, scratching the space behind his ear.

Emma sighed in frustration and smoothed a hand over the top of her head. “I don’t know then, maybe I’m just trying to find something that isn’t there.”

Killian regarded her in silence for a moment before he held up a hand. “Hold on,” he instructed, walking quickly away from her and over to one of the computers in the center of the room. Emma watched as he typed furiously, stealing glances at the file from time to time. Emma stayed silent and waited for him to explain as he was clearly running some program or algorithm. He stopped typing finally and gazed impatiently at the hour glass on the screen. He bit his lip again as a window popped up and a moment later turned to her with a wide smile.

“You’re right, Emma, look,” he said, enthusiastically waving her over.

Confused, Emma walked over to where he stood and stooped to read the screen. “What am I looking at, Killian?”

“Keep reading,” he urged, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

He’d done some kind of search on the antique shop Mendell had been working at for the last two years and this was some kind of profile. Emma sighed and skimmed the page, searching for whatever it was that had excited him so much. She reached a portion of the profile that had information from the business license and lease; her heart almost stopped when she saw the name of the owner.

“Belle French-Gold,” she whispered breathlessly, straightening up and spinning toward Killian once more, her face shinning with renewed hope.

Killian smiled and nodded triumphantly. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves yet another victim connected to Gold.”

“Yeah,” Emma agreed, her mind racing as she paced around the empty office, “But for the first time ever we might have an actual witness.”

Killian’s eyebrow raised in surprise. “We do? Who?”

Emma smiled widely and closed the distance between them. “Tamara Cerveny, Mendell’s girlfriend,” she explained lowly, “I’d bet my car that she not only knows that Gold is responsible for Mendell’s murder, but that she also either worked for him in the past or does now.”

“Shit,” Killian said simply, running another hand through his hair, “Emma, you need to get her to talk.”

Emma shrugged and bit her lip. “I tried,” she told him, some of the fire going out of her, “She was too afraid.”

Killian shook his head then as he stalked over to her and placed both of his hands on her shoulders. “You misunderstand,” he explained, earnestly holding her gaze, the heat from his palms seeping through her shirt and warming her skin, “We don’t need a Detective for this one, Emma, we need a Swan.”

A determined smile blossomed slowly across her face, her fire rekindled. “Let’s get to work then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: There’s a fight scene toward the beginning that has mentions of blood and stuff (also, violence, obv~) so if you don’t like that stuff, maybe skip that part? Also, there’s a slight bit of M-ness at the end (just barely but still).
> 
> (Un-beta’ed)

Turned out that questioning Tamara was easier said than done. In the hours following her release from police custody, she’d somehow managed to disappear (despite the protective detail). Emma had feared the worst, at first, had assumed one of Gold’s lackeys had abducted her, or worse, had “taken care” of her. The police clearly had no idea that anything was amiss as the car that was supposed to be watching her was still parked outside when Emma came to check for clues at Tamara’s apartment two days later. After inspecting the apartment for herself, Emma had come to the conclusion that Tamara had left of her own free will; she’d had to use her lock pick to gain access, so there was no forced entry, there was a significant gap in the midst of the clothing hanging in her closet that suggested a large amount had been hastily removed, and a trail that appeared to be caused by the wheels of a small suitcase on the carpet leading out of the bedroom.

What Emma _hadn’t_ found was any clues that pointed to where she might’ve taken refuge. She’d met Mary Margaret and Killian back at their base and shared the news. They’d discussed a few options amongst themselves and had ended up going with Killian’s suggestion of running a basic facial recognition software as it was most likely to yield results in the shortest amount of time. It took longer than any of them would’ve liked (suggesting that either Tamara was better at hiding than any of them had assumed or that Storybrooke was bigger than they’d realized), but they’d gotten lucky and managed to pin her location down in about a day. Apparently she’d decided to take a chance and hide in plain site; she was in the Ruins, laying low in an abandoned motel down by the pier (which, coincidentally, was only a few blocks from where Gold’s base was rumored to be).

Killian pulled the van to a stop and shifted the gear into park. Mary Margaret quickly exited through the passenger side, shutting the door behind her and making her way to the back of the vehicle to retrieve her bow.

“I don’t like this plan,” Killian confessed to the blonde still seated beside him, his voice laced with concern.

“I don’t care,” Emma replied insolently as she hastily pulled her hair into a ponytail, “You’re staying here, Killian.”

He scoffed at her response and repositioned himself so he was facing her. “Why?” he asked irritably, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because I said so,” Emma answered, her hard tone suggesting the matter was not up for discussion.

“You’re not my mother, Emma, that reason isn’t going to cut it,” he retorted angrily, “You need back up.”

“Yeah,” she began, fitting her mask over her eyes, “That’s why Mary Margaret is here.”

Killian expelled an annoyed sigh and rolled his eyes. “Are you seriously going to try and tell me that a third set of hands wouldn’t be helpful?”

There was a moment of silence as Emma considered her response, a weary sigh shaking her entire being. “I need you to be here where it’s safe,” she explained calmly, her gaze resolutely fixed on the clenched hands resting in her lap.

“And you think being here alone in this van is safer than being with the two of you?” he snapped, trying to catch her eyes.

“You can’t defend yourself, Killian,” Emma hissed, finally turning to face him, “I can’t afford to be worrying about you. Not to tonight.”

“I can _so_ defend myself,” Killian scoffed, “It’s not like I’ve never been in a fight before.”

“Killian, please,” she pleaded, her voice quavering slightly as she met his eyes earnestly, “Please, just for _once_ , do what I ask and stay here.”

He felt the anger leech out of him the longer he held her gaze, her deep, green eyes saying far more than her words ever could (“I can’t lose you”). He sighed in defeat after a moment, briefly closing his eyes and swallowing thickly.

“As you wish,” he acquiesced quietly.

Emma nodded and took a deep breath through her nose. “Thank you,” she said softly, affixing a comm to her ear.

A knock on the window startled the two of them, effectively ending their conversation. Emma swiveled her head to the right at the sound and breathed a sigh of relief when she realized it was Mary Margaret. Emma nodded to her friend through the closed window before silently exiting the van.

She adjusted her black motorcycle jacket as she walked to the edge of the alley where Mary Margaret was positioned, both of them sticking to the shadows.

“Everything okay in there?” Mary Margaret asked quietly, adjusting the quiver strap across her chest.

Emma sighed briefly and nodded, handing a second comm to the brunette. “Everything’s fine,” she mumbled.

Mary Margaret accepted the comm and stuck it in her ear. “If you say so,” she conceded, knowingly eyeing her friend.

Emma ignored the woman’s gaze and switched the comm in her ear on. “Testing, one-two.”

 _“Coming in loud and clear,”_ Killian grumbled sullenly.

Mary Margaret followed suit, silently questioning his tone by raising her eyebrow at Emma. She shook her head briefly and shot the brunette a look that said they’d discuss this later.

“How far out are we, Jones?” Emma whispered, surveying the surrounding area for possible onlookers.

“ _About two blocks south of the target’s last known location._ ”

Emma nodded wordlessly and met Mary Margaret’s eyes with her own. “You ready?” she asked lowly, feeling uncharacteristically nervous.

“Always,” Mary Margaret answered with a soft smile.

Emma felt the tension leave her as she returned the other woman’s smile and nodded once more. They parted ways, Emma emerging from the protective cover of the alley and heading in the direction Killian had indicated, and Mary Margaret climbing up a ladder on the building across the street.

Emma reached the pier in no time, carefully surveying Tamara’s supposed hideout from around the corner, cursing inwardly when she noticed that the front door was blocked by debris.

“The front entrance is impassable,” she muttered, craning her neck to see if she could find another way in without losing her cover.

“ _So is the back_ ,” Mary Margaret responded, “ _Someone’s chained the door shut_.”

Emma sighed in frustration and turned away from the building, leaning against the wall beside her. “Either of you see another way in? I can’t see shit from this angle.”

The clicking of Killian’s keyboard filled the silence as she impatiently waited for one of them to answer.

“ _There’s a broken window on the west side of the building, up on the fourth floor_ ,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, “ _I should be able to jump over to the roof and climb down._ ”

Emma grimaced and pulled away from the wall. “Any way I can access it from the ground?”

There was a pause as Mary Margaret presumably surveyed the structure. “ _Not unless you can scale four stories worth of smooth concrete_ ,” she said.

“ _Emma, there’s an unobstructed entrance on the eastern side,_ ” Killian supplied abruptly, “ _You should be able to reach it without losing your cover._ ”

“Okay, thanks,” she sighed, walking in the direction Killian indicated, “Go ahead and use that window, Mary Margaret. I’ll meet you inside.”

“ _Aye, aye, Captain,_ ” Mary Margaret retorted sarcastically.

Emma huffed a laugh and rolled her eyes. “Funny,” she muttered.

“ _I thought so,_ ” Mary Margaret agreed, her breathing labored as she silently climbed her way down to the broken window.

Emma reached the eastern wall by way of a side street, using the darkness as shield; it wouldn’t do to have Tamara glimpse them before they even got inside, after all. Spotting the door Killian had mentioned, she halted to observe the entrance and immediate surroundings from her cover across the street. Satisfied by the lack of obstacles, she tore suddenly from the darkness like a bullet from a gun, her eyes fixed on her destination. She made to tug open the door upon her arrival and was relieved to find it unlocked. Silently, she slipped inside, stilling momentarily as she caught her breath and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“I’m in,” she breathed, creeping cautiously down the corridor she’d ended up in.

“ _Same here_ ,” whispered Mary Margaret, “ _No sign of her yet_.”

“Where are you?” she asked softly, searching the few rooms off of the hallway.

“ _Still upstairs_ ,” Mary Margaret muttered quickly.

“Let me know if you spot her,” Emma instructed softly as she surreptitiously continued to search the ground floor of the building.

Mary Margaret didn’t respond as Emma finished her sweep and found her way to the stairs. She ascended carefully and quietly, worried all the while that the structure was going to collapse under her weight. She made it to the second floor unscathed, moving past the broken down elevators and down the corridor that lead to the first wave of rooms. All of the buildings in the Ruins had been looted shortly after the earthquake, leaving the majority of the doors wide open. She made quick work of the first few spaces, keeping her eyes and ears perked for anything that could point to their target’s current location.

She was just finishing the chamber at the hall when she heard heavy footfalls almost directly above her. Holding her breath, she listened. She followed the footsteps to one by the stairs and halting.

“I think she’s on the third floor,” Emma whispered as the footfalls ceased, “In the room across from the elevators.”

She didn’t wait for a reply as she slowly made her way up her second set of stairs. She stilled halfway up, straining her ears for any and all sounds. There was a muted shuffling coming from the room she’d heard the footfalls stop in; the door was wide open, the flickering light of what appeared to be a fire spilling through the doorway. Emma stopped at the top of the stairwell and pressed herself into the wall by the door and listening. Tamara (if that indeed was her in there) didn’t appear to notice that anything was amiss as the shuffling of what Emma now realized was paper continued.

Emma centered herself with a deep breath before she inched forward enough to steal a quick look through the door; Tamara Cerveny sat on a rickety, wooden chair, her back to the wall as she faced the open doorway. Her attention was blessedly focused on the fire she was attempting to light in the small trashcan before her rather than the door, giving Emma enough time to slip quietly through and into the kitchenette off of the foyer.

Emma slowly wove a path through the kitchenette and into a living area that housed an old, dirty sofa and a broken table with three legs. She tiptoed silently to the door that lead to the former bedroom Tamara was holed up in and snuck another glance at her. Her attention still seemed to be on lighting the fire until a creaking noise from the outside hall made her pause. Emma shirked back behind the cover of the wall and waited.

The room was silent for a moment as Tamara stayed still, presumably listening for anymore noises in the hall. Distantly, Emma wondered if it had been Mary Margaret or simply the oldness of the building. Praying it was the latter, she snuck another glance around the doorframe when she heard the light shuffling of Tamara’s shoes on the wooden floor. The other woman had crept toward foyer that led into the outside hall, her back now to Emma. Deciding that this would most likely be her only opportunity to surprise her, she crept silently through the doorway and moved toward Tamara slowly.

She was a few mere feet away when another creak in the hall made her pause. Emma waited with bated breath as Tamara decided whether or not to make a move. Cerveny, apparently deciding that running was her best option, turned quickly toward her before Emma could move back to her hiding place. They both stood frozen as their eyes met, Tamara’s brown ones widening with surprise.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked numbly as her shocked eyes swept over her quickly taking in Emma’s ensemble.

Emma hastily gathered her wits and held the other woman’s gaze. “I think you know,” she replied simply.

Recognition flared in her eyes after a moment, causing her to unconsciously take a step back. “You—you’re supposed to be a myth,” Tamara stammered, eyeing Emma with caution.

“We need to talk, Tamara,” Emma insisted, completely ignoring her statement.

“Talk? About what?” she asked, nervously shifting her stance.

Emma watched her closely, preparing for a fight. “About Gold,” she answered shortly.

Tamara swallowed nervously, her eyes flitting around the room in search of an escape route. “What about him?”

“About how he has a tendency to off his employees,” Emma explained calmly, taking a step forward, “Employees like your boyfriend, for instance.”

Tamara suddenly came barreling toward her at the mention of Mendell, aiming to tackle her to the ground. Emma stepped to the side to avoid her, noticing the swing of Tamara’s balled up fist aimed right at her head a second too late. Her head snapped to the side as Tamara’s fist connected with her face and Emma felt her bottom lip split almost instantaneously.

“Lucky shot,” she said thickly as she tongued the cut on her lip, her jaw sore from the blow.

Tamara merely glared and breathed heavily through the flared nostrils of her nose before she cried out in anger and tried her luck again. Emma blocked her punch with her forearm and shoved her arm away, knocking Tamara off balance. She pushed Tamara as she swayed, intending to knock her to the ground and subdue her, but she had other ideas. Instead of falling, Tamara twisted her body and grabbed onto the back of Emma’s jacket. She struggled to stay upright, twisting her body forward in an attempt to counter the addition of Tamara’s weight. Once she’d regained her footing, she turned so that her back was to the nearest wall and slammed Tamara against it.

Tamara grunted in pain and grabbed Emma’s ponytail in retaliation. She yelped in surprise as her head was pulled back and then promptly thrust against the same wall. Emma stumbled away from the wall and shook her head as she tried to regain her bearings.

“Is that all you got?” Emma taunted, breathing heavily through her nose.

Tamara smirked as she got to her feet and moved to kick Emma in the gut. Emma sidestepped the move easily and retaliated by lobbing a punch at her nose. Her fist connected with the other woman’s face and Emma could almost feel the bones in her nose cracking beneath the force of her hit. Tamara bent forward as she howled in pain, instinctively grabbing her now-bloody nose. Emma took the opportunity and wrapped her arm around the back of Tamara’s hunched shoulders, effectively holding her in place. She then lifted her leg and slammed her knee into Tamara’s gut, knocking the wind out of her. Distracted by her pain and her attempts to catch her breath, she fell to her knees.

Emma’s face was still stinging and her head was throbbing as she pushed Tamara down so she lay on her stomach on the floor. Before the woman could regain her senses, Emma quickly brought both of her arms behind her back and handcuffed them there.

“Guys, I’ve got her,” she mumbled wearily, “Some help would not go unappreciated.”

“ _I’m on my way Emma,_ ” Mary Margaret said breathlessly in her ear suddenly.

“Fantastic,” Emma sighed, pulling Tamara up from the floor and directing her back to the chair she’d been in earlier.

“ _Are you alright, Emma?_ ” came Killian’s concerned voice, “ _That encounter sounded a bit more…painful than usual._ ”

Emma rubbed the sore spot on her head as she gave herself a moment to catch her breath. “I’m fine, Jones. It’s nothing a few fingers of single malt won’t fix.”

She heard him sigh in response, as footsteps echoed into the room from the outside hall.

“Hey,” greeted a breathless Mary Margaret as she practically ran into the room.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me, where the hell were you?” Emma exclaimed, shooting her friend a look of exasperation.

Mary Margaret sighed and made her way over to Emma’s side of the room. “The stairs are impassable up there so I had to go back out the window I came in through and find that door Jones told you about. Sorry.”

“Sure, sure,” said Emma, huffing in mock annoyance and waving her over, “Okay, us girls here are going to have a little chat and _your_ job is to make sure she stays in this chair.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary Margaret replied facetiously as she walked over and took her place behind Tamara.

Emma ran a hand over her disheveled ponytail, giving herself a moment to recover from her tussle.

“Alright so, based solely upon your reaction, I’m going to assume that you knew about Gold’s hand in Mendell murder,” Emma reasoned as she paced around the room.

Tamara’s lack of response reminded Emma about their chat at precinct the other day; intimidation hadn’t worked on her, she was obviously too tough to let that kind of thing get to her, but being honest with her _had_.

Emma halted her pacing and turned to face her once more. “I’m going to be straight with you, Tamara,” she began, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’m trying to bring down Gold. It’s clear that you know more than you’re willing to admit, and that’s fine, it’s your right. But something tells me that you’re not hiding here because you’re afraid of the police or of someone like me. I think you’re afraid of _him_ , and God knows you should be.”

She stopped speaking momentarily and slowly walked closer, giving her words time to really sink in. “Just how long do you think it’s going to take for him to find you? The man has endless resources. If he wanted to, he could put everything he has into looking for you. You could run, leave town, but I think we both know he’d find you eventually. Is that really how you want to live the rest of your life? Constantly looking over your shoulder, squatting in places like _this_ , waking up every morning wondering ‘is today the day?’…Only to end up dead anyway? That doesn’t seem worth it to me.”

She halted her gait a few feet from Tamara’s chair and crouched so she could meet her eyes. “ _Help me_. Help me, and I can help _you_ ; you won’t have to live in fear, you can go home, and you can help me bring justice to the man responsible for the death of someone you _loved_. Please, just tell me what you know.”

Silence filled the room as the minutes ticked by. Emma watched her closely, searching for even the smallest sign that she’d reached her. She was about to admit defeat when Tamara suddenly met her eyes. “Okay,” she croaked softly, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Emma allowed a small smile to grace her face as she nodded in thanks and rose to a standing position. After instructing Mary Margaret to remove the cuffs, she waited patiently as Tamara collected her thoughts. She started by revealing to them that she worked for Gold and that Greg had worked for him too. She went on to tell them how she and Greg had been together for years, how they’d met at the lowest points in their respective lives, how they’d helped each other make it through. She explained that joining Gold’s operation had been a blessing at first; he’d taken them in, given them jobs, helped them rebuild their lives…And then he’d asked for (no, _demanded_ ) repayment.

At first it had been little things, a mugging here, a carjacking there; from there it had continued to escalate and before either of them knew it, they were in so deep that the only way Gold was ever letting them out was by way of death (either at their own hands or his). That’s when they’d started putting together a plan, a plan to _get out_ , to _live_. It had been in the works for over a year; they’d been setting money aside, putting together new identities for themselves, hatching an escape plan. They’d been _so close_ , and somehow Gold had found out. Needless to say, he’d been furious.  They should’ve known something worse was coming when he’d let them go after a simple tongue lashing. Greg had been found dead a few days later and Tamara, suspecting she was next, had gathered whatever she’d been able to carry and fled.

“I tried to leave the city,” she told them, sniffing every now and then (whether because of her bloody nose or her crying, Emma didn’t know), “But his henchmen were everywhere; at the train station, on any bus that went across the city limits…That’s why I’m here by the pier. I was hoping to stowaway on one of the outgoing ships. Guess that’s not happening now.”

Emma swallowed thickly, her mind racing. She paced the room a few times before returning to her place before Tamara. “Do you know who he sent to kill Greg?” she asked earnestly.

Tamara twisted her hands in her lap and shook her head. “No but, I know it’s someone he uses often. They’re some kind of knife enthusiast, whoever they are, hence the stabbings.”

Emma sighed lightly in frustration and met Mary Margaret’s eyes over Tamara’s head.

 “I think I know who might be able to tell you, though,” Tamara continued suddenly.

Emma’s eyes snapped back to Tamara, hope filling her once more. “Who?”

“Guy named Jefferson. He runs a bar called The Rabbit Hole. Rumor is that he knows everything there is to know about this city’s underbelly,” she explained, shifting in her chair restlessly, “But, he’ll only meet with those that know the secret phrase.”

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” Killian muttered irritably in her ear. Emma could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“You wouldn’t happen to know this phrase, would you?” she asked hopefully.

“It just so happens that I do,” Tamara mumbled wearily, a tired smile gracing her face.

* * *

 

Emma and Mary Margaret exited Tamara’s hiding place fifteen minutes later, their new-found knowledge tucked safely into their mental archives (and hopefully also on Killian’s hard drive as he should’ve been recording their entire conversation). They’d tried to convince Tamara to leave the rundown hotel in favor of some place more comfortable, but she’d insisted that she was safe where she was, at least for the moment.

“Jeeze, Ems,” Mary Margaret remarked as they rounded the corner where their van was parked, her eyes roving the blonde’s face, “You look terrible.”

Emma laughed and stopped at the back door of the van, watching as her friend removed her weaponry. “I’m sure it looks worse than it is,” she assured her, wincing as the stretching of her lips caused her split lip to ache.

“You said she rammed your head into the wall, right? You should probably ice that later or something,” Mary Margaret suggested, biting her lip and grimacing.

“Yeah, sure,” Emma placated, knocking so Killian would open the door as it was locked from the outside.

There was a squeaking sound as the handle turned and the metal doors popped open to reveal their comrade. “Bloody hell, Emma,” he groaned, his mouth falling open in shock as he jumped from the van and walked until he stood before her.

“As I was just telling Mary Margaret, _I’m fine_ ,” she said, rolling her eyes.

She started when his hands unexpectedly cupped her face, examining her wounds with a furrowed brow as he tilted her head this way and that.

 “Look me in the eyes, I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” he ordered after a moment, pulling a pen light from his pocket.

Emma huffed a quiet laugh and met his eyes. “ _I’m fine,_ Killian,” she assured, bringing a hand to rest on his, “I’ve had worse, believe me.”

Killian searched her eyes for a moment before sighing in resignation and nodding. “As you say,” he said softly, freeing her face from his hold and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“So,” Emma began after a few moments of silence, “You recorded all of that, right?”

Killian shot her a quizzical look. “Really, Swan? I find your lack of faith insulting,” he replied, raising an eyebrow and turning to walk back to the van.

“As long as you don’t find it disturbing,” she joked, rolling her eyes and making her way to join Mary Margaret on the passenger side.

The ride back to base was silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts. It was midnight when they were finally ready to go their separate ways. Mary Margaret and Killian made Emma swear that she was going to take it easy on her day off tomorrow (the former even offering to stay the night with her just in case something happened) (it was sweet, really, having people care so much).

“Fine, I promise,” she conceded, her hands finding her hips, “On the condition that the two of _you_ promise to go to that bar with me tomorrow night.”

“I can’t,” Mary Margaret grimaced, “My parents are flying in tomorrow, remember? David and I are taking them out to dinner.”

Emma pouted at the brunette and flicked her gaze to meet Killian’s. “And I suppose you too have some pressing engagement?”

“Quite the contrary,” he confessed, throwing her an impish smile, “It’s a date.”

Emma chuckled and shook her head at him. “Right. I’ll pick you up at seven, Hot Stuff. Remember to dress nice, we need to blend in.”

Killian scoffed and waved her off, as if the notion that he didn’t always dress nice was ridiculous.

With their plans set, the three of them parted ways. Emma was trudging into her apartment ten minutes later, her exhaustion hitting her like a ton of bricks. She all but tripped out of her boots and groaned in frustration when the zipper on her jacket got stuck in the shirt underneath it. When she was finally freed from the confines of her costume, she jumped into her pajamas, crawled onto her bed and snuggled down into the nest of pillows beneath her down comforter.

* * *

 

Emma woke up late the next day, her head throbbing as if she’d spent the night drinking rather than simply taking blows to the head. It had taken three cups of strong coffee and a few Advil to finally numb the throbbing and when five o’clock rolled around, she was right as rain.  It took a half an hour for her to put herself together (she’d never been more thankful for that little black dress she kept tucked into the back of her closet) and by six-thirty she was out the door and in her bug. She pulled up outside of Killian’s building with five minutes to spare and pulled out her phone. After shooting off a text to let him know she was waiting outside, she gave herself one last glance in the rearview mirror.

The main door opened a few minutes later and out stepped Killian, his hair artfully tousled, dressed casually in a black, leather jacket over a midnight-blue button up and a pair of dark-washed jeans. He spotted her and ran a hand over his beard as he walked toward her car and pulled open the door.

Emma shook herself when she realized she was staring and prayed he hadn’t noticed as he planted himself in the passenger seat and shut the door.

“Evening,” he greeted with a smirk, pulling the seat belt across his body.

“Leather? Really?” she jeered, raising an eyebrow at him, “I told you to dress _nice_.”

Killian scoffed and gripped the lapels of his jacket. “This jacket cost me a fortune, it _is_ nice.”

Inwardly, Emma agreed; it _was_ (especially on him). Outwardly, she simply rolled her eyes and said nothing further as she shifted the bug into drive.

“You’re looking quite lovely tonight, Swan,” Killian observed, the intensity of his gaze making her skin feel like it was on fire.

Emma licked her lips nervously and shot him a look that suggested a confidence she didn’t feel. “Don’t I always?”

Killian chuckled lightly and gazed out the window. “Aye,” he replied softly.

She stole a quick glance at him and swallowed nervously; this had been _such_ a bad idea. Being alone with Killian at work and on missions was one thing, but _this_ , this was on completely different terms and _holy crap, did he look gorgeous in that leather jacket_. They spent the rest of their drive in companionable silence, pulling into the parking lot of The Rabbit Hole a little before seven-thirty.

Emma sighed and turned off the ignition before shifting to face Killian in the passenger seat. “You ready?”

“’Course,” he replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

Emma nodded wordlessly, opening the car door and stepping out. Killian followed suit, meeting her at the back of the car.

“Shall we?” he asked, offering her his arm with a grin.

Emma chuckled and shook her head before lacing her right arm with his left.

The Rabbit Hole was blessedly nicer than its exterior suggested. The lowly-lit, smoky room was relatively small; cozy booths lined the crimson-colored walls and a few small, free-standing tables were scattered about the room. The bar up against the far wall was overrun with people trying to catch the bartender’s attention. There was a combination of light jazz and conversation permeating the room as Killian guided Emma to a booth in one of the back corners.

“Better vantage point,” he claimed, releasing her as she slid onto the padded bench.

“I’ll say,” she agreed, her eyes roaming the room as he slid onto the bench opposite her.

There was a moment of silence as the two of them covertly surveyed their surroundings.

“How long do you think we should wait?” Killian asked suddenly, his eyes scanning the bar across from their table.

“Half an hour, maybe,” Emma suggested, returning her gaze to the man across from her. “Think you could get us a couple drinks so we can blend easier?”

Killian met her eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Drinking on the job? How very unlike you.”

“We’re in a bar, Jones. Don’t you think it’ll be suspicious to not have at least _one_ drink while we’re here?” she said, rolling her eyes at him as she pulled her arms from her sweater.

“Fair point,” he conceded, his gaze lingering on her now-bare arms, “So, what’ll you have, then?”

“Whisky,” she replied simply, shifting her arms to rest on the table.

Killian stirred and stood up from the bench. “As the lady wishes,” he said, maintaining their eye contact for a moment longer as he stepped backward toward the bar.

Emma bit her lip as she watched him saunter up to the counter and lean on its edge, her eyes drinking in the sight of him. This _thing_ going on between her and Killian seemed to have hit its peak this evening and if she wasn’t careful, she was liable to do something she’d regret, something that might destroy their friendship altogether. Tearing her eyes away from his back (because _goddamn, did his ass look great in those jeans_ ), she closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths, reminding herself that they were here to do a job.

She’d regained a bit more control over herself by the time he returned, drinks in hand, a devastating smile on his annoyingly handsome face. They spent the next twenty minutes nursing their drinks and chatting idly, all the while keeping a close watch on their surroundings. They shared a look when the crowd at the bar began to thin; Killian raising his eyebrow in question, Emma nodding in response.

“Let me handle this,” she told him quietly as she wandered over and casually leaned on the counter, Killian trailing behind her.

It didn’t take long for the bartender to notice her. He ambled over, leering all the while. Pushing back the cringe that threated to emerge, she quickly flashed a charming smile at him.

“What can I get for you, sweetheart?” he rasped, leaning toward her over the counter and shooting her a smile that she assumed was meant to be seductive. 

Emma smiled and bit her lip coyly as she reached over to lightly touch his arm. “I actually just have a question.”

“Ask away,” he breathed, his eyes roving over her face and coming to rest on her mouth.

“Alright,” she began softly, sobering suddenly and looking him dead in the eye, “Why is raven like a writing-desk?”

The lewd smile dropped from his face almost immediately upon her words. After simply staring at one another for a moment, he swallowed and stepped back.

“Wait here,” he instructed, running a hand over his semi-bald head as he walked quickly away from Emma’s side of the bar and through a mirror-plated door that led to the back room.

Emma shuddered the second he was out of sight; she felt like she needed another shower. She heard chuckling to her left and shot Killian a glare.

“Shut up,” she grumbled, running a hand through her hair.

“I didn’t say a word,” he snickered, holding up his hands in supplication.

Emma crossed her arms over her chest petulantly and continued to glare at him. “You laughed.”

“Yes well, it’s always quite amusing watching men make arses of themselves in your midst,” he admitted, suddenly tilting his head. “Strangely it also fills me with pride.”

She smiled and bit back the laugh that threatened to escape her. “Pride? _Really?_ ” she asked, her nose crinkling.

“Aye,” he chuckled softly, scratching behind his ear and meeting her eyes, “You’re a hell of a woman, lass.”

Emma averted her gaze as she felt herself flush. “You’re not so bad yourself, Jones,” she muttered, staring resolutely at the faux wooden surface of the bar.

She didn’t look at him, she _couldn’t_ because he probably had _that_ expression on his face, the one that made her heart feel like it was going to explode from her chest, and she just couldn’t deal with that right now.

Thankfully she didn’t have to as their friendly neighborhood bartender returned before Killian could respond to her confession.

“Follow me,” he demanded flatly, leading them to the counter’s hatch and through the door he’d disappeared through.

The bartender escorted them to an all-white sitting room with nothing but two identical sofas and an unlit fireplace. He instructed them to “wait there” and exited through another door (this one red and dotted white with a golden border). They sat on the couch and waited in silence, afraid to speak lest this “Jefferson” have some means of recording his guests. After an indeterminable amount of time, the red door opened once more and a tall, brunette man (hair impeccably styled) stepped into the room. He was dressed somewhat oddly, the patterns on his shirt and waistcoat clashing horribly, a dark grey scarf fixed around his neck. Despite his strange choice in clothing patterns, he was clearly very wealthy.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked calmly, an eerie smile on his face.

Emma eyed him suspiciously. “You’re Jefferson?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I am,” he replied, sitting himself on the couch across from them and patiently waiting for them to speak their piece.

Emma met Killian’s gaze and raised her eyebrow in question. He shrugged in response and turned to look at Jefferson once more. “We’re here for information,” he explained, crossing his arms and leaning into the back of the couch.

Jefferson nodded thoughtfully and crossed his legs. “And what makes you think I have the information you seek?”

“A reliable source,” Emma said firmly, almost daring him to question her.

Jefferson sniffed out a laugh and shifted his eyes to her, studying her for a moment. “Alright, let’s assume your source is correct. What makes you think I’ll share anything I know with complete strangers?”

“We’re prepared to make you a deal,” Killian began, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs, “You tell us what we need to know and we’ll give you whatever you want.”

Jefferson considered the two of them for a moment, clasping his hands thoughtfully in his lap. “Fine. Tell me what you want to know and I’ll… determine whether or not I can help.”

Emma took a deep breath and considered her words carefully. “We need information on Gold.”

“The metal or the billionaire?” Jefferson retorted, a sly smile on his face.

Emma glared at him briefly and crossed her arms over her chest. “Which do you think, smart ass?”

He chuckled at her boldness and waggled a finger at her in mock admonishment. “Now, now, no need to resort to name calling. What about Gold exactly?”

“Anything we can use to bring him down,” Killian answered resolutely.

Jefferson’s head swiveled toward Killian at his statement. “You want to bring down _Gold_? Do you two have a death wish?”

“Look,” Emma said, jumping to her feet, “We have a witness, one we can probably convince to testify against him. But it’s not going to be enough, we need _more_ , we need irrefutable proof that he’s dirty.”

“And you think _I_ can give you that? That I’d be willing to risk my _life_ in the process?” he asked sharply, shaking his head in exasperation.

“No one has to know where we got our information,” Killian offered, rising to stand alongside Emma, “If you tell us what we need and where we can find it, there’s no need to implicate you at all.”

Silence filled the room as Jefferson considered their offer. He studied the both of them for a moment before sighing and running a hand over his face as he rose from the couch and walked toward the fireplace. He leaned his shoulder against the mantel and stared pensively at the floor.

“Mills and Co.,” he muttered quietly, holding his position by the fireplace.

Emma’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?” she asked, taking a step toward him.

“Mills and Co.,” he repeated louder, raising his eyes to meet theirs, “That’s where you need to go.”

“The bank?” Killian asked, confusion lacing his tone.

Jefferson nodded and pushed off the wall with a quiet sigh. “They have the most secure facility in the entire state,” he explained as he began pacing the room, “What you’ll need is in one of the high security safety deposit boxes. They’re underground, accessible only by an elevator that needs a special key card. And that’s not even the best part.”

Emma and Killian anxiously watched the other man pace.

“What’s the best part?” Emma asked quietly.

He stopped his pacing again and turned to face the two of them. “If, somehow, you manage to break in and swipe the elevator key card without being caught, you’ll still need three keys to open a box; one from the account holder, one from the bank manager on duty, and one from the bank’s owner.”

Killian exhaled loudly and ran a hand through his hair. “Oh, is that all?” he asked sardonically.

Jefferson nodded wordlessly, crossing him arms across his chest.

“What do you think?” Killian asked, turning to look at Emma.

She was silent for a moment as she considered her answer. “I think we’ve got a lot of planning to do,” she said numbly.

“Wait a moment, what’s even _in_ this box of Gold’s we’re supposed to go through all this trouble for?” Killian asked suddenly, returning his attention to Jefferson.

Jefferson tilted his head and silently studied the two of them for a moment. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’d actually risk your freedom, risk your _lives_ because of a single man,” he said finally, his eyes wide with surprise.

“This is about much more than a man,” Emma said vaguely, staring pensively at the floor with furrowed brows.

Jefferson studied them a moment longer before shrugging. “Fine, it’s your funeral,” he said, reclaiming his position on the couch, “To answer your question, I don’t exactly know _what_ he keeps in the box but I _do_ know that it’s important to him.”

“Clearly, he wouldn’t be keeping it at a place like Mills if it wasn’t, would he?” Killian mocked, rolling his eyes.

“I meant important to him business-wise,” said Jefferson calmly, picking imaginary lint from his slacks.

“What makes you think it has something to do with his business dealings?” Emma asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I have an informant on the inside that keeps me apprised of the activity at Mills,” he explained patiently, “Apparently Gold accesses his box at least once a week. Why would he do that if it was just some personal item he wanted kept safe?”

“That’s not exactly proof of your theory,” she muttered, biting her lip anxiously.

“Not exactly, no, but it doesn’t disprove it either,” he countered, leaning into the back of the couch and clasping his hands behind his head.

“Fair enough,” she sighed, running a hand through her hair.

“Let’s say that we decide to do this,” Killian began, returning to his seat across from Jefferson, “Even if we manage to find a way in and obtain that elevator key card, we don’t have the three keys needed to open Gold’s box nor do we know what number that box even _is_.”

“ _I_ know,” Jefferson said cryptically, “I can _also_ help you acquire the keys...Well, two of them, anyway.”

“Which two?” Killian asked, studying the other man with narrowed eyes.

“The two the bank has, of course,” he replied, a bored expression on his face, “The informant I mentioned has access to both.”

“Hold on a second,” Emma interjected, rejoining Killian on the couch, “You still haven’t told us what you want in exchange for all of this.”

Jefferson rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking exhausted. “What I want,” he began thoughtfully, “Is in box 47223.”

“Great, we need to break into two boxes now?” she asked tiredly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“You’ll already have the two keys from the bank so, no breaking in required,” he placated, “The other key I have. I’ll give it to you before you enter the building.”

“If you have the account holder’s key, what do you need us for?” Killian asked, tilting his head.

“He’s not the account holder,” Emma guessed, knowingly meeting Jefferson’s eyes.

He nodded wordlessly and ran a hand through his now-mussed hair.

Killian and Emma stared at each other for a moment, engaging in one of those wordless conversations they sometimes had.

“We’ll accept your deal on one condition,” Emma said finally, returning her gaze to Jefferson.

“Which is?” he asked, an indifferent expression gracing his face once more.

“We want a meeting with your insider,” she said, unblinkingly holding his gaze.

Jefferson considered her terms silently for a moment, pensively running a hand over his chin. “Agreed,” he said finally, meeting her gaze once more. Without another word, he rose to his feet and held out his hand to her.

Emma shared a quick look with Killian again before standing and firmly grasping it, sealing their deal.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said tersely, releasing Emma’s hand and striding over to the red door he’d entered through.

Emma let go of a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding once Jefferson left them and turned to Killian. “I need a drink,” she said, trudging past him to the door that led back out into the bar.

The crowd had thinned significantly in their absence; save from the single person at the counter, everyone left seemed to have congregated at the tables in the middle of the room. Emma rifled through the bottles behind the counter upon her reentry and muttered triumphantly when she came across a mostly-full bottle of rum. She grabbed it and headed back to the booth in the corner she and Killian had been occupying earlier, opening the bottle and taking a hearty swig.

She swallowed and moaned in delight as she smacked the bottle on the table and sat down. “Holy shit is that good,” she enthused, licking the remaining liquid from her lips and leaning back into the back of the booth.

Killian stared at her silently from his place at the end of the table. “We should go,” he said simply.

Emma shook her head as she grasped the neck of the bottle and brought it to her lips for another mouthful. “Not just yet. Sit, have some rum. It’s on the house,” she said playfully, already slightly buzzed.

He sighed in defeat after a moment and sat on the bench across from her. Emma took another quick drink and slid the bottle to his side of the table. “Come on, Jones, have a drink with me,” she said in mock cheerfulness, her green eyes pleading.

“It’d be my honor,” he said softly, holding her eyes as he took a long, slow drink.

Emma unconsciously licked her lips, the alcohol in her system causing her vision to blur slightly and giving everything in the low-lit room a glow.

They left the bar an hour or so later, Killian at the wheel of her bug after claiming she wasn’t fit to drive (which was probably true considering she’d downed at least half of that bottle of rum). It was two in the morning when they made it to her building. Killian pulled into a space and killed the engine before retrieving his phone from his jacket.

“Who are you calling?” Emma slurred tiredly (drinking on an empty stomach always seemed to make her sleepy).

“A cab,” he said simply, his phone to his ear.

Cab on its way, he turned to her and sighed. “I suppose we should get you upstairs,” he said, turning to open the driver’s side door.

She nodded in agreement and sat up in the seat so she could reach the door handle. Killian helped her stand, reminding her to grab her discarded heels from the floor. She tripped a few times on her way to the elevator from her car, giggling incessantly. Killian steadied her when they finally reached her door as she slowly dug through her purse in search of her keys. He took pity on her after a few minutes, chuckling and snatching her bag away to continue the search himself.

Emma studied him as he rummaged, his brow furrowed in concentration. She took a step closer to him, swallowing her heart that was suddenly beating in her throat and licking her lips. He whooped quietly a minute later, pulling the battered silver key from the depths of her purse and proudly stuffing it into the lock. His smile fell slightly when he met her eyes.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked, his hands resting on her upper arms as he leaned in to study her face better in the dim light of the hallway.

“Never better,” she breathed, raising her hands to grasp the lapels of his leather jacket and gazing up at him through her lashes.

She watched him gulp nervously and smiled softly. “Emma, what are you doing?” he asked softly, his voice suddenly hoarse.

She bit her bottom lip and shifted her gaze to his mouth, gripping his lapels tighter. “Shut up,” she muttered as she dragged him to her by his jacket and tilted her head to meet his lips with her own.

Heat blossomed in her chest as she frantically slid her lips over his; they were warm and soft against her own. A groan rumbled through his chest a moment later as he returned her kiss, matching her fervor. Goosebumps erupted over her skin as his hands lightly caressed her arms. A moment later, one slid over her shoulder, up her neck, and tangled itself in the depths of her blonde locks, the other came to rest on her hip and pulled her flush against him. Emma gasped against his lips at the feeling of his warm, lean body against hers, the beginnings of desire coiling in her stomach. Seizing his chance, Killian slipped his tongue between her parted lips and eagerly explored her mouth. Emma moaned, releasing her grip on his jacket and plunging her fingers into his soft, thick hair as their tongues slid against each other.

Emma steered Killian backward until his back was against the wall beside her door as her hands slid down his neck and burrowed beneath his jacket, her fingers lightly tracing the muscles of his stomach. She pulled back slightly, her nose bumping his as her breath fanned out in quick puffs over his lips. Killian groaned again as she nipped at his bottom lip, the hand in her hair holding her to him. He inhaled sharply as she kissed her way over his chin and down his neck, her hands fisting themselves in his shirt as her hips stuttered lightly against the growing hardness in his jeans.

She was worrying a mark onto the skin over his collar bone when he growled suddenly and pulled her lips back up to his. The hand on her hip moved down over her ass as he attacked her mouth and clutched her thigh, lifting it so her leg rested on his waist, pressing their hips closer together. Emma whimpered and ran her hands up and down his chest as she met him thrust for thrust.

“ _Emma_ ,” Killian moaned breathily against her lips, untangling the hand in her hair and sliding it so he was lightly cupping her face.

The realization of what she was doing and who she was doing it _with_ hit her like a semi. Her eyes, no longer clouded with lust and rum, sprang open as she detached her mouth from his. She could feel the panic welling up inside of her as she carefully pushed him away and took a few steps back. She ran a quick hand through her hair as she fought to keep the feeling at bay (at the least until she made it inside her apartment) and warily glanced in his direction. He looked completely wrecked; his eyes were still closed, his lips were swollen, his hair was deliciously disheveled, his breathing labored.

Emma muttered a curse and took a few steadying breaths, feeling as wrecked as Killian looked.

“I—I have to go. Goodnight, Killian,” she told him hoarsely, practically breaking down her door in her haste to get inside.

He’d come back to himself halfway through her goodbye, staggering away from the wall with a dazed look in his eyes. “Emma, wait."

She shook her head frantically as she turned the knob and stumbled inside. “Goodnight,” she repeated shakily as she quickly closed the door.

She let the panic take over as she clicked the lock into place and leaned heavily against the door, allowing herself to slide down to the floor. It was almost four in the morning by the time she managed to drag herself to her bed. Her last thought before she finally passed out from exhaustion, one she’d later deny having, was about how _at home_ she’d felt in his embrace.

She tossed and turned the whole night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I don’t think I’ve really said this at all yet so I just wanna take a moment to thank everyone that’s taken the time to read this story, everyone that’s reviewed, everyone that’s followed and favorited (liked, given kudos, bookmarked). Just, srsly thank you so much. I went into this assuming I was going to be the only one enjoying this story so it makes me indescribably happy that you all seem to be enjoying it too. :’)
> 
> (Un-beta’ed)

Emma grumbled in displeasure as the sunlight filtered in from between her haphazardly shut curtains and assaulted her eyes. She winced as she rolled over to face the wall, her head aching as if she’d been hit upside it with a baseball bat. She cringed at the horrible taste in her mouth as she pulled the covers over her head to hide from the light.

 _Just a few more minutes…_ she bargained, snuggling further down into the mass of pillows she usually slept on.

Her eyes popped open a second later as panic suddenly surged through her. She cursed as she desperately tried to untangle herself from the bed sheets, flinging her arm out in search of the cell phone she usually left on her bedside table. She squinted as her eyes attempted to adjust to the light and push her tangled, blonde hair out of her face with her free hand. She cursed again when she realized her cell phone wasn’t in its usual place and all but tumbled from her bed and into her living room in search of her purse.

She looked for five minutes before sighing in defeat and racking her brain as she tried to recall where she’d last had it. She’d had it last night at the bar with Killian, in the car on her way home, in the hallway when she’d…Oh God, _when she’d kissed Killian_. Panic rushed through her as she groaned and raked her fingers through her hair. She’d made out with one of her best friends, with her _partner;_ what the hell was she going to do? How was she going to explain this?

 _Blame the rum_ , said a voice in her head. She nodded frantically in response and promptly moaned in pain, her headache suddenly a hundred times worse.

“Gotta find my purse,” she mumbled to herself as she trudged toward the door and pulled it open. She checked the floor outside the door first, then around the corner just to be sure; nothing. Cursing again, she plodded toward the building’s entrance hoping Killian had left it in her car. Emma shivered as she pushed open the door and stepped outside, the thin material of her pajama pants and tank top doing little to shield her from the cold autumn air.

After finding her car and locating the key (thank God for that magnetic key holder Mary Margaret had gotten her for Christmas last year), she desperately searched beneath the seats, in the glove compartment, and anywhere else her purse might fit.

“Shit,” she muttered, biting her lip and giving the interior another quick glance. She shut the door and ran to the front of the bug, realizing she had yet to search her trunk. Emma sighed in relief when she lifted the door to find her purse, her shoes, _and_ her sweater. A flame of guilt flickered within her when she realized that Killian had to have hidden her things here _after_ she’d left him in the hall. Pushing the thought from her mind, she quickly grabbed her purse and shut the trunk.

Emma rummaged through her bag as she made her way back to her apartment, muttering triumphantly when she finally located her phone; nine missed calls and four texts messages. She grumbled as she shut her door behind her and bolted it, scrolling through her call log as she made her way to the couch in her living room and sat.

Eight of the missed calls and three of texts were from David and Graham (she was supposed to be at work hours ago, they must’ve been wondering where she was), one call from a number she didn’t recognize and one text Mary Margaret had sent the night before asking how things had gone at Jefferson’s bar.

Emma bit her lip as she tapped the icon by her brother’s name and brought the phone to her ear; he answered after the first ring.

“ _Emma? You were supposed to be in at eight, where are you? Is everything alright?_ ” David asked in lieu of a hello.

“I’m fine, David. My phone died and I overslept, is all,” she assured him hoarsely, her throat raw and dry from her over imbibing the night before, “I’m not feeling that great though, do you mind if I use a sick day?”

There was a pause as he presumably thought her request through. “ _Of course_ ,” he replied softly, “ _Do you need anything? I can stop at the pharmacy on my lunch break if you do_.”

“No, really I’m fine. I think I just need to sleep it off,” she said, smiling softly and sinking back into the couch, “Thank you, though.”

After wishing her well and ordering her to bed, she and David hung up. She shot Graham a quick text explaining that she wasn’t coming in, knowing her brother would fill him in on the rest, and exhaled deeply as she laid down sideways on the couch and curled into herself. Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to wander as sleep slowly began to reclaim her. The last thought she recalled before dropping off sends her into a fitful sleep; Killian hadn’t called. He’d known where she was supposed to be and he hadn’t been worried, hadn’t checked in on her.

It was her own fault, she knew that, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

* * *

The shrill chiming of her text message alert startled her awake about an hour later. She grumbled and entered her unlock code, her stomach dropping in disappointment when she saw that it was from Mary Margaret.

**Heard you were taking a sick day. Everything okay?**

_Just a migraine,_ she lied, rising from the couch to fetch herself a much needed glass of water (or five).

 **K, feel better** ,said Mary Margaret’s reply (which would’ve made Emma suspicious had she been able to think clearly).

She sent back a quick “thanks” in response, setting her phone down on the kitchen counter before throwing back another glass of water and making her way back to the couch to resume her nap.

She was awakened a couple of hours later by someone knocking on her front door. She tried to ignore it at first, hoping that they would assume she wasn’t home and leave, but the knocking persisted. Emma whined as she rolled off the couch and shuffled over to answer the door. She didn’t bother to look through the peep hole, simply unlocking the door and pulling it open to reveal Mary Margaret.

“Hey,” her friend greeted, smiling softly and holding up a brown paper bag, “I brought you some soup from that diner you like.”

“Oh, great,” Emma croaked, moving over to allow her friend inside.

Mary Margaret glided into the kitchen and set the bag down on the counter before pulling a bowl from the cabinet and a spoon from the drawer. “Sit,” she instructed, gesturing to the couch Emma had been occupying for most of the day.

Emma nodded slightly in response before lumbering over and dropping heavily onto the sofa.

“So,” Mary Margaret began, stirring the soup she’d just pulled from Emma’s microwave, “Feeling any better?”

“A little,” Emma mumbled, rubbing her face tiredly, “I feel like I could sleep for a week though.”

 Mary Margaret hummed thoughtfully as she walked the bowl of soup over to her and held it out for her to take.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, accepting the bowl and bringing it toward her, “How’s everything at the station today?”

“Oh, fine,” Mary Margaret replied vaguely as she sat, “Pretty quiet, actually. You picked a good day to be sick.”

Emma sniffed a laugh and brought a spoonful of soup to her lips. “Good to know.”

“So how’d last night go?” Mary Margaret asked abruptly, crossing her ankles and gazing at her friend thoughtfully.

“Oh,” Emma began, nonchalantly bringing another spoonful of soup to her lips, “It went alright.”

Mary Margaret nodded and knowingly eyed her friend. “Just ‘alright,’ huh? Is that why you’re hung over as all hell and Killian’s been moping around the precinct all day?”

Emma coughed as she choked on the mouthful of soup she’d been swallowing. She felt Mary Margaret take the bowl from her and hand her a napkin. The brunette waited patiently as she regained her composure.

“Okay, yeah, I’m hung over. That can happen when you drink on an empty stomach,” she said, picking up the soup again and stirring it.

“And Killian?” Mary Margaret asked softly.

“What about him?” Emma grumbled moodily, stuffing another spoonful in her mouth.

“Come on, Emma,” she heard Mary Margaret scoff, “You really think you can pull one over me? I know you two better than most and I _know_ something is wrong. What happened?”

Emma bit her lip and sighed as she rested the bowl in her lap. “We kind of…made out a little,” she confessed quietly, her eyes glued to the coffee table in front of her.

“Hmm, only a little, huh?” her friend replied, amusement lacing her tone.

Emma bit back a smile and met Mary Margaret’s eyes. “Yeah.”

“How’d the meeting with Jefferson go? Was Tamara’s intel good?” she asked, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

Emma nodded and silently thanked her for changing the subject. “It was. We struck a deal and he’s going to get in touch ASAP.”

“Good, good,” she replied, rising from the couch and shucking her jacket, “I wish I could’ve been there but, well, you know how my parents are.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, her eyes following the brunette as she wandered into the kitchen and filled two glasses with water. Silence fell between them as Mary Margaret traipsed back to the living room and handed a glass to Emma. She smiled in thanks as the other woman resumed her position on the couch and sipped her beverage.

“It was bound to happen, you know,” Mary Margaret said eventually, her green eyes soft.

“What was?” Emma asked confusedly, her brow furrowed.

“You and Killian,” she replied matter-of-factly, taking another sip of water.

Emma felt her body tense. “There’s no ‘me and Killian,’ Mary Margaret,” she claimed, “What happened was an accident, a one-time thing.”

“Guess that explains Killian’s kicked puppy impression this morning,” Mary Margaret mumbled, “How exactly was it an ‘accident,’ though? Did you trip and _accidently_ attach your lips to his face?”

“I told you, I was _drunk_ ,” Emma scoffed, defensively crossing her arm over her middle.

Mary Margaret raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s not just an excuse, Emma?”

“ _It’s not_ ,” she insisted petulantly, averting her eyes from her friend’s knowing gaze.

“Alright, whatever you say,” Mary Margaret granted, rising from the sofa and returning to the kitchen to deposit her used glass in the sink. “You think you’re well enough to still attend mine and David’s engagement party tomorrow night?”

Emma bit her lip in contemplation; not only would her brother kill her if she missed his engagement party, but her best friend would be crushed. Whatever was going on between her and Killian was going to have to take a backseat for the night.

“Of course I’ll be there,” she responded, rising from the couch and walking over to her friend, “Thanks for checking on me.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?” Mary Margaret smiled, pulling Emma into a hug.

She nodded as Mary Margaret pulled away and moved to retrieve her jacket.

“Feel better, okay?” she said, her hand propping open the door as she half-turned to meet Emma’s eyes, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Emma repeated quietly as Mary Margaret closed the door behind her.

* * *

 She woke early the next morning, well-rested from having slept the majority of the day before. The morning air outside was brisk as she exited her apartment with the intention of running a couple of quick errands. Emma shivered slightly as a sharp breeze greeted her and pulled the beanie on her head down over her ears. She stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and took a deep breath, the cold air filling her lungs and waking her up a bit more. She crossed the street after checking for oncoming traffic and made her way to the grocery store a few blocks over.

The thrum of her boots on the linoleum floor echoed as she walked down the empty liquor aisle; it was Saturday morning, most people were still sleeping and those that weren’t probably weren’t buying a bottle of merlot at eight in the morning. After grabbing the largest moderately priced bottle she could find, she grabbed a basket and went about finding the other items on her list.

An hour later she was home, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and hot cup of coco warming her from the inside out. She tried distracting herself with whatever was on television this early (which wasn’t much, truth be told) but her mind kept drifting back to what had happened with Killian the other night. Emma sighed and took a large sip from her mug, cradling it in her hands in an effort to warm her fingers. There were so many other things she should be focusing on right now, things like planning this heist they were apparently going to pull or figuring out how to get Gold’s key off of him or worrying about whether or not she could really trust Jefferson. Her relationship with her partner should definitely _not_ be occupying her mind as much as it seemed to be, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop it from going there.

Emma knew that they’d have to talk about it eventually; if nothing else, it was the only way she’d be able to get herself to refocus on what _really_ mattered. But she was afraid, afraid to know just how much her actions had changed things between them. She’d admitted to herself a long time ago that her feelings for Killian were…decidedly more than friendly. But admitting that to _him_? It was a complication that neither of them needed, especially when they were _so close_.

She sighed again, at a loss, and drained her mug before shutting the television off and rising from the sofa. She busied herself with cleaning and organizing her apartment for the remainder of the day and by the time five o’clock rolled around, the dust had been removed from any and all surfaces, her hardwood floors were swept and mopped, her laundry washed and folded, and the books on her bookshelf alphabetized by title. Emma raked her fingers through her mussed hair and wandered over to her closet to select an outfit for the party that evening.

It was a family affair so that ruled out some of her more… _thrilling_ outfits and there was probably going to be a lot of standing so comfortable shoes were definitely a must. Eventually, she settled on an emerald green dress that fell just above her knees and a pair of her favorite black pumps. Her attire selected, she made her way to the bathroom to wash off the day and ready herself for the night.

* * *

 Anxiety knotted in her stomach as she pulled her yellow bug into an empty spot around the corner from David and Mary Margaret’s building. After mentally slapping herself for behaving so ridiculously, she took a steadying breath, grabbed the bottle of wine she’d bought that morning, and pulled herself from the safety of her car. She combed her fingers nervously through her curls as she walked up the steps and pulled open the door to the lobby. Emma smiled shakily at the familiar security guard at the desk and made her way to the elevator.

The door to her brother’s apartment was looming before her only minutes later as she took one more deep breath and reminded herself that tonight was not about her. She forced a smile onto her lips and rang the doorbell, cradling the bottle of wine in the crook of her arm. The door opened a few seconds later and her forced smile turned genuine when her eyes met her brother’s.

“Emma, you’re here,” David cried, quickly pulling his little sister into a hug and cradling the back of her head with hand, “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” she replied with a soft smile, pulling back slightly from his embrace to meet his concerned gaze, “How are _you_ feeling? You’re the one getting married in three months.”

David released her from his hold, positively beaming at the mention of his upcoming wedding. “I’m great,” he said with a smile, turning to observe his fiancé from across the room.

Emma’s smile widened as she watched him, an ache of joy building in her chest; it had been a long time since she’d seen him this happy, since she’d seen him look at anyone other than her as reverently as he looked at Mary Margaret.

She shook her head a moment later as if to clear it and placed a hand on David’s bicep. Emma bit back a smile as he started and abruptly returned his attention to her. “I’m going to go greet my future sister-in-law and drop this off in the kitchen,” she told him, holding the bottle of wine by the neck for her brother to see and slipping off her jacket.

David nodded as he took the jacket from her and hung it on a hook by the door. He then wound an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he said quietly, a sad smile replacing his joyful one.

“Me too,” Emma said, swallowing thickly and meeting his eyes, acknowledging his unspoken wish that their mother could be too.

David squeezed her shoulder in reply and released her, steadying himself with a deep breath as she shot him a parting smile and walked in the direction of the kitchen. She exchanged quick hellos with some of the guests that she passed along the way, ignoring the disappointment that briefly flashed through her when she didn’t come across Killian.

“Emma!” Mary Margaret called, waving her friend over.

Emma smiled and made her way across the room to join Mary Margaret in the kitchen.

“The lady of the hour,” Emma greeted, placing the wine bottle on the counter and engulfing the brunette in a tight hug.

Mary Margaret laughed lightly and returned her hug. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” she said knowingly as they pulled away.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Emma told her, smiling and releasing the other woman and gesturing to the merlot she’d brought. “I come bearing gifts.”

“A gift that keeps on giving,” she chuckled, widening her eyes at the size of the bottle and pointing at Emma, “You are definitely helping me with this.”

Emma sniggered and leaned against the counter. “Gladly. Don’t let me have too many glasses, though, I tend to make bad decisions when I drink too much.”

“Haven’t talked to him yet, huh?” she said, digging through a nearby drawer and pulling out a corkscrew.

Emma shook her head and pushed off the counter. “No. I think this is a conversation we should have in person,” she said, licking her lips nervously as she pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet.

Mary Margaret nodded in agreement as she popped the cork from the bottle and grabbed one of the glasses in Emma’s hands. “Just. Be honest with him, Emma, he deserves at least that,” she implored, filling the glass in her hand and setting it on the counter.

“I know,” Emma said softly, holding the other glass out for her friend to fill.

Silence permeated the room as Mary Margaret set down the bottle and picked up her own glass, swirling the liquid around a few times before taking a small sip.

“Come on,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, smiling and grasping Emma’s hand, “Let's say hello to my parents.”

She spent the next half hour catching up with “Eva and Leo” and the hour and a half that followed mingling throughout the room. She’d been chatting amiably with Graham when she’d finally spotted him; he was on the other side of the room talking with a petite, blonde woman that Emma didn’t recognize. An uninvited wave of jealousy crashed through her when the woman laughed at something he must’ve said and touched his arm. Emma dragged her eyes away from him and attempted to refocus her attention on Graham (who had been regaling her with one of the many amusing tales from his youth before she’d gotten distracted).

“—jumped the fence and tore a massive hole in my pants in the process,” Graham told her, pausing to laugh at the memory, “I ran for at least a mile before realizing my underwear was completely on display.”

Emma laughed loudly in response, attempting to compensate for missing half of his story. There was a lull in their conversation as they both took a pull from their respective beverages and Emma’s eyes drifted back toward Killian before she could stop them. He was laughing at something she had said now, throwing back his head slightly and giving the room fleeting glimpses of his neck.

“Emma? Hello?” Graham asked, waving a hand in front of her and chuckling.

Emma shook her head and averted her gaze once more. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“You alright there, Nolan? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you space out before,” he said, his amusement shifting slightly into concern.

Emma laughed nervously and bit her lip. “I just have a lot on my mind tonight. Sorry.”

The look on his face said that he didn’t quite believe her but he made no attempt to discuss the matter further.

“I’m gonna go top this off,” she told him, holding up her glass, “Talk to you later?”

Graham nodded and eyed her curiously as she smiled and made her way back to the kitchen. She managed to keep her eyes to herself along the way and sighed in relief when she found the kitchen empty. Emma downed the mouthful of wine that remained in her glass before setting it on the counter next to the bottle of merlot Mary Margaret had left there earlier. She folded her arms on the counter top and hunched over to rest her forehead on them. Relishing the silence and the break from idle conversation, she closed her eyes for a moment.

“Are you alright?” an accented female voice suddenly asked to her left.

Emma’s eyes sprang open as she abruptly straightened herself and turned to address the interloper; it was the blonde Killian had been talking to. She bit back the belligerent response that threatened to escape her and smiled thinly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I think I just need some air,” she said, raking a hand through her hair as she moved to exit the room.

Her eyes quickly scanned the living room when she re-entered. Seeing no sign of Killian she sighed in frustration and made her way to the door that lead to the balcony. The frigid air caressed her skin as she stepped out into the night. Emma rubbed her hands up and down her arms a few times, futilely trying to rid herself of the goosebumps that had broken out across her skin.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

She started at the greeting, her head quickly swiveling toward the voice.

“Killian,” she choked, watching as he took a long pull from the cigarette between his fingers, “Since when do you smoke?”

He shrugged wordlessly and slowly exhaled, causing smoke to curl toward the sky as he puffed it out from between his lips. “I don’t usually. Unless I’m stressed,” he claimed, shifting his gaze to her as he gestured to the beer in his hand, “Or drinking.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, not knowing what else to say.

“You enjoying the party, then?” he asked, closing his eyes as he took another long drag from his cigarette.

“Yeah,” she said, licking her lips nervously as she took a step toward him, “You seem like you’ve been enjoying yourself too.”

He opened his eyes at that and raised an eyebrow, flicking the half-smoked cigarette off the side of the balcony. “What, are you watching me now, Swan?”

“No,” Emma lied, scoffing for added effect as she leaned against the railing a few feet away from him, “I just happened to glance over and saw you laughing with someone, that’s all.”

She saw his eyes narrow as he studied her in the dim light. “’That’s all,’ eh?”

Emma shrugged and obstinately stared at the ground to avoid meeting his eyes, knowing he’d see the truth in them.

Killian sighed tiredly and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Tell me, are we actually going to talk about this or are we just going to keep pretending like nothing happened?”

Emma bit her lip and hesitantly met his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said softly as she crossed her arms over her chest, “I was kind of drunk and you were _there_ and…It won’t happen again, I promise.”

A tense silence fell between them as he considered her statement. “That’s what you’re going with? You’re blaming the alcohol?”

“Well, yeah…” she said slowly, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Come on, Emma, did you really I was going to accept that excuse? ‘It was the rum’, bloody hell, lass,” he grumbled, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

“It’s not an excuse when it’s the truth, Killian,” she retorted, be beginnings of annoyance bubbling within her.

He laughed hollowly and looked her dead in the eye. “You and I both know that’s a lie.”

Anger flashed through her as she rose from her place against the railing to better meet his gaze. “What do you want me to tell you, Killian? That I’m in love with you? _It was just a kiss._ ”

“What I _want_ is for you to be _honest_ with me,” he countered, stepping closer to her and invading her space.

“I am,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He sighed and shook his head, his gaze softening. “No you’re not, and you’re not being honest with yourself either.”

“It was a mistake, okay,” she denied weakly, a part of her knowing he was right, “It meant nothing.”

Her words left a bad taste on her tongue as his knowing eyes searched hers. “What _I_ felt was far from nothing, Emma, and I know you felt it too,” he whispered sadly as he took a step away from her.

Emma swallowed thickly, guilt stabbing through her for being the cause of his misery.

“How we may or may not feel about each other doesn’t matter, Killian,” she said softly, her tone resolute.

Killian inhaled shakily and licked his lips. “Go ahead then, enlighten me. Why doesn’t it matter?” he asked despondently.

“Because we have a mission,” she began, earnestly meeting his gaze, “A mission that’s bigger than either of us, a mission that _has_ to come first. Our personal feelings don’t matter. What _does_ is whether or not we can finish what we started.”

“Our personal feelings are what started all of this in the first place. How can you say that they don’t matter now?” Killian asked earnestly as he stepped toward her once more, their faces inches apart.

Emma exhaled shakily, his nearness causing her head to swim. “We are _so_ close to ending this, Killian, we cannot afford any unnecessary distractions.”

He studied her silently for a moment, his too blue eyes roving her face. Realizing that he wasn’t going to sway her, he nodded in defeat and leaned back a little. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said softly.

Emma studied him through her lashes, still wondering where they stood as silence feel between them once more. “Are—are we…okay?” she asked hesitantly after a moment.

Killian smiled sadly and met her gaze with his own. “Of course, love,” he replied quietly before gesturing to the balcony door, “Shall we?”

She smiled slightly and nodded as she followed him back inside, feeling heavier despite the fact that she’d mended things with Killian.

Later as sleep eluded her, as thoughts of ‘what ifs’ and ‘could bes’ swirled around in her mind, Emma wondered if Killian had been right about her lying to herself. She wondered whether she really believed her reasoning, wondered if maybe her fear of getting hurt, of losing a friend had somehow forced her mind to concoct an excuse to keep things as they were.

So much for choosing the less distracting option.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hey, so, if anyone has been anxiously awaiting an update of this story all month (lol unlikely, but I can dream~) I humbly apologize for the ridiculous delay. This month has been annoyingly busy, today is literally one of the first days I’ve had off in weeks lol. Anyway, if you were waiting, thanks for being patient! I hope this is worth it~  
> (Un-beta’ed)

_FRIDAY_

He was beyond exhausted.

Between the late-night drinking, not getting home until three in the morning, and having an eight o’clock shift, Killian was done before the day had even begun (and that’s not even counting the ridiculous amount of tossing and turning he’d endured courtesy of his… _encounter_ with Emma).

Thank God it was Friday.

He sighed as he trudged through the main doors, taking a hearty gulp of his coffee (with _two_ extra shots of espresso). Killian was worried. He hadn’t known Emma Nolan long but she’d always been a bit of an open book to him. She could be a bit prickly at times but her friends and family mattered greatly to her (were her _world_ , even, given the lengths she’d gone through to bring justice to her mother). He knew she cared about him, knew that she greatly valued their partnership (and not only because she’d told him so), but something just beneath the surface always seemed to make her pull away every time she sensed she was getting too close, too _attached_.

Killian understood her fear to some extent. He’d lost people he loved too (his chest constricted as Liam’s face flitted through his mind); the pain had never really gone away, and he suspected it probably never would. He sighed as he sat his bag and cup down onto the surface of his desk. This thought processes was a dangerous one, he knew, and not just because it involved Emma and matters of the heart.

Their situations were actually quite a bit similar as he too had been orphaned and raised by his brother. His mother had died of cancer when he was just a lad, too young to remember her face without a photograph. She’d been the light of his father’s world; he was never the same after she’d died, turning to drink and drugs to dull the pain. _He’d_ died of alcohol poisoning when Killian was twelve. He still remembers the funeral as if it were yesterday.

He thanked the universe daily that he’d still had his brother then, he doesn’t know where he’d be now if he’d been carted off to some orphanage instead. Liam had been so good to him (good _for_ him), had shown him how to be strong, how to lead, how to be _kind_. Killian missed him with an ache that would never be quelled.

Oddly, he barely remembered _that_ funeral.

He’d moved to the States not long after his Liam’s death, desperate to start fresh somewhere that wasn’t tainted by the death of his entire family. He’d come over on a student visa, had finished secondary school, and had gone on to college. Always a wiz with computers, he used his skills to help pay for his education (jobs both legal and _questionably_ legal in nature).

He’d met Milah on one of those questionably legal jobs. Killian hadn’t really dated much growing up, the horrors of his youth forcing him to mature rather quickly; there had always been something more important to do with his time, chasing girls had just never really been something that had appealed to him.

Until he’d met _her_ , of course. Everything about her had captivated him; the shape and shade of her strikingly gray eyes, the curve of her smile, her wit and intellect. He’d loved it all.

Killian still partially blamed himself for what happened to her. She’d had this grudge against this businessman she _swore_ was corrupt; apparently the man (Gold) had conned her family out of their entire life savings (something that had resulted in the deaths of her parents). She’d been trying to take Gold down for _years_ , had thrown everything she had at him, and _nothing_. The monster was seemingly untouchable. Seeing firsthand how much this endeavor meant to her, Killian had offered to help before he’d realized just how dangerous the man was.

It had started a few months after they’d met; they’d been hired to hack some government website and pass the information they gleaned along to a specific buyer. He’d been hesitant to accept such a difficult job of such at first, knowing that the security on a government site was going to be the best of the best (not to mention that they’d have to be _sure_ to cover their tracks), but she had convinced him. It had taken _days_ , but they eventually broke through and were compensated handsomely for it.

Once Milah had realized what the two of them could accomplish _together_ , her determination had only grown. She gradually became obsessed with Gold, eventually even resorting to _physically_ following him (he’d found surveillance photos she’d taken following her death). Every now and then he still wished that he’d seen the situation for what it was, that he’d tried to pull her back, tried to talk her out of it (as if he could’ve). Instead, he’d essentially helped her dig her own grave.

Killian can still recall (in great detail) the day he’d walked into their shared flat and found her cold, lifeless body sprawled across the sofa.

The medical examiner had declared her death an “accidental drug overdose,” giving the police the excuse they needed to rule out any suspicion of a homicide; they’d closed her case almost immediately.

He _knew_ they were wrong, that they were just writing her off because they viewed her as some lowly criminal. He began digging through her things, searching for _anything_ that could tell him what she’d been mixed up in, what could’ve caused something like _this_ to happen to her.

The discovery of her file on Gold had connected nearly every piece of the puzzle; she had information on the man that spanned almost his entire life, had the addresses of his many businesses and homes, the locations of his many bank accounts (both legal and dirty), his entire personal history (where he’d been born, where he’d gone to school, the exact date he’d settled in Storybrooke). Amongst the seemingly random collection of information, he’d also found notes she’d made regarding some kind of code.

Code he soon realized _he’d_ written.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out what she must’ve done, especially given what he knew about her past. She’d used his code as a framework to break into and empty one of Gold’s offshore accounts. He’d felt a small flicker of pride at this discovery, realizing that because the money was dirty, there was nothing he could do to retrieve it.

Except, perhaps, eliminate the person that stole it from him.

He’d hacked into the police database that night in search of her file because he _knew_ , he just knew that that was exactly what Gold had done. It took hours but eventually he broke in and located her autopsy report; cause of death: _heart failure due to an indeterminable toxin_.

As he’d suspected, she’d been murdered, _poisoned_ (and Gold had paid off the ME to say otherwise).

Killian still dreamed of her from time to time. And of his brother. Of what might’ve been were they still alive.

Those were the dreams that haunted him the longest.

“Jones? _Hello?_ ”

Killian shook himself from his slog down memory lane and focused his attention on the blonde woman talking to him (though perhaps, not the blonde he’d been hoping to see).

“Elsa, hi,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s Ms. Vinter to you, sailor,” she joked, subtly reminding him she was his superior. She stared at him expectantly for a moment before she sighed and crossed her arms. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“My apologies, I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he muttered, “What were you saying?”

“I asked,” she began, her tone firm, “How you’re faring with that case I gave you Tuesday.”

Killian cleared his throat and sat up straighter in his desk chair. “Right, of course. Um, I’m almost finished, I think. Should be by the end of the day, anyway,” he responded, throwing her a quick smile.

Her face softened slightly as she studied him. “Are you alright, Killian? You look exhausted.”

He huffed a laugh and nodded. “Aye, that’s because I am. Don’t worry about me, I’ll have plenty of time to catch up on sleep this weekend.”

She raised a playful eyebrow at him before turning to walk away. “Alright, fine. Quit slacking then, Jones, you’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, smiling and throwing up a mock salute.

Elsa smiled and shook her head as she walked away to check on the rest of her team, leaving Killian alone with his thoughts once more. The sudden ringing of his office phone momentarily halted his regression, but an hour later his mind had moved from his lost loved ones onto Emma and what had transpired the previous night.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

There was a stack of pending case files on his desk he should be working on right now, especially the one he’d promised to have done by day’s end.

And yet there he was procrastinating.

He’d reorganized his desk drawers four times, had moved the nick knacks on the surface around twice, and had found an innumerable amount of excuses to leave his department and ‘casually’ walk by Emma’s empty desk.

She wasn’t there. _Why wasn’t she there_?

His usual course of action would be to call her or perhaps send a quick text to ensure that she was, at the very least, _alive_. But after last night…

Well, he suspected that whatever her reasons were for staying home, he was likely the _last_ person she’d wish to talk to.

He’d considered asking Mary Margaret if she’d heard from her, but he knew she’d ask about Jefferson’s and he wasn’t so sure he was ready to talk about it with anyone but Emma just yet. Besides, her brother was the station Captain; if anything was amiss, he would certainly _not_ still be sitting in his office doing paper work.

 _She’s fine_ , he told himself, _I’ll give her the space she needs and we’ll talk about what happened later_.

Perhaps easier said than done.

By lunch, he’d forced himself to focus long enough to make some headway on a few of the files on his desk, managing to finish processing two of them before his shift ended.

He sighed tiredly as he stood from his chair, raking a hand through his hair and wincing slightly as his back cracked.

“Taking off, Jones?” came a voice to his right.

His head swiveled in the direction of the voice as his unconsciously took a step back.

Mary Margaret.

“Aye,” he swallowed, eyeing the brunette apprehensively.

“Have any plans? A hot date maybe?” she joked, raising an eyebrow.

Killian huffed a laugh and scratched the space behind his ear. “Sadly, no. What about you? Are your parents still in town?”

Mary Margaret nodded and shifted so she was leaning against the side of his desk. “They’re staying the weekend, leaving Monday morning,” she said, watching Killian shift nervously. “Speaking of which,” she continued, “Our engagement party is tomorrow night. You’re still coming, right?”

“Of course, I’ll be there,” he promised, mentally berating himself for allowing it to slip his mind.

Mary Margaret smiled and nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

Silence fell between them. Killian licked his lips and averted his gaze to the floor as the urge to ask about Emma filled him once more.

“She’s fine, Killian,” Mary Margaret offered abruptly.

His eyes flew back to hers as if to confirm the truth of her words. “Good,” he said quietly, absentmindedly biting his lip.

She nodded as she eyed him knowingly. “Alright, I guess I’ll let you go. See you tomorrow night.”

Killian bobbed his head and muttered, “Right, tomorrow,” in response as the brunette walked away from him. He heaved a deep sigh as he processed her words.

Bloody hell, did he ever need a drink.

* * *

_SATURDAY_

Killian awoke just after noon, making good on his plan to catch up on sleep that weekend. After a strong cup of coffee and breakfast for lunch, he plopped himself down on his couch and pulled the novel he’d started reading ages ago off the coffee table.

He was startled awake three hours later by the ringing of his phone.

Deciding that he’d lounged around enough, he threw on a t-shirt, some comfortable shorts, and his running shoes and set off to clear his head with a jog.

It didn’t work, but at least he felt slightly more productive than he had before.

Before long, the sun was setting and Killian realized he should probably get ready for the Blanchard-Nolan engagement party.

He’d arrived right on time, hoping to be a least a _bit_ buzzed by the time Emma decided to show up. He’d mingled a bit, chatting idly with his co-workers, getting to know some friends of the couple that didn’t work at the station; an hour or so in found him pleasantly buzzed and chatting with the blonde (whose name he later recalled was ‘Tink’) that had accompanied Elsa. She was a flight attendant apparently, visiting Elsa during one of her layovers, and was regaling him with stories of some of her worst flights ever when Emma arrived.

He fought the urge to slap himself when he felt his throat go dry at the sight of her (was he ever a pathetic sod).

Killian started when he realized ‘Tink’ was still speaking to him and, not wanting to be rude, gave her as much of his attention as his mind would allow (the alcohol helped _immensely_ ).

He excused himself after a particularly raucous tale about a gentleman who’d tried to stuff a suitcase full of fruity contraband into an overhead compartment, willing his eyes to not look for _her_ as he made his way out to the balcony for a smoke. Killian sighed contentedly at the silence that met him outside, pulling a cigarette from the box in his back pocket and quickly lighting it; it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a good party because he _did_ , he just didn’t seem to be in much of a partying mood these days.

He closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, the nicotine-laced smoke filling his lungs and calming his nerves.

 _She’s avoiding me_ , he thought, taking another pull as he wandered over to the railing of the balcony and leaned over, shivering slightly as a cold breeze pierced the thin material of the dress shirt he’d chosen to wear.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really; watching Emma Nolan deny and run away from her feelings was something he’d watched her do since the day they met. Nevertheless, it hurt. Perhaps Killian had hoped that maybe he’d be different, that he’d be the exception.

Alas, no.

The sound of the balcony doors opening withdrew him from his wallowing. He shifted his position against the railing and turned his eyes toward it.

 _Emma_.

His heart stuttered in his chest at her unexpected appearance. She hadn’t seen him; he allowed himself a brief moment to study her, the memory of how _good_ she’d felt pressed against him causing heat to coil suddenly throughout his body. His fingers itched to anchor themselves in her hair as the wind blew a few lose strands onto her face.

Licking his lips, he quickly shook himself and turned away from her, taking another pull from the cigarette between his fingers in an effort to appear nonchalant.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he greeted, silently thanking the heavens that his voice didn’t waiver.

“Killian,” Emma responded, the surprise in her voice evident, “Since when do you smoke?”

He shrugged as he slowly exhaled. “I don’t usually. Unless I’m stressed,” he answered, forcing himself to meet her eyes and gesturing to the beer in his hand, “Or drinking.”

“Oh,” she said softly, shifting nervously.

They were blatantly ignoring the elephant in the room and it was killing him. He knew she needed time and space to process the _incident_ and he didn’t want to push her, but the tension that was usually between them had been amplified by a thousand and he didn’t know how long he’d be able to stand it.

“You enjoying the party, then?” he asked her, closing his eyes and enjoying another drag from his cigarette.

“Yeah,” he heard her say, her heels clicking dully against the concrete as she stepped toward him, “You seem like you’ve been enjoying yourself too.”

He opened his eyes and raised a brow at her before flicking the remainder of his cigarette over the railing. “What, are you watching me now, Swan?” he asked, suddenly feeling a bit defensive.

“No,” she scoffed as she leaned against the railing, “I just happened to glance over and saw you laughing with someone, that’s all.”

Annoyance briefly flashed through him as he studied her; was she _jealous_? “’That’s all,’ eh?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

He watched as she shrugged and stubbornly stared at the ground and suddenly he’d had enough.

“Tell me, are we actually going to talk about this or are we just going to keep pretending like nothing happened?” he sighed, suddenly weary from the song and dance they’ve had going on between them since the day they met.

Emma was silent for a moment before biting her lip and cautiously meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she offered softly, crossing her arms over her chest defensively, “I was kind of drunk and you were _there_ and…It won’t happen again, I promise.”

The silence that fell between them was palpable; was she _serious_? How daft did she think he was? “That’s what you’re going with? You’re blaming the alcohol?”

“Well, yeah…” she said, clearly confused by his reaction.

“Come on, Emma, did you really I was going to accept that excuse? ‘It was the rum’, bloody hell, lass,” he grumbled as he raked a hand through his hair.

This woman was bloody infuriating.

“It’s not an excuse when it’s the truth, Killian,” she claimed, her tone bordering on annoyed now.

Killian laughed hollowly and met her eyes with his own. “You and I both know that’s a lie.”

He could feel the anger rolling off of her as she pushed off the railing and straightened. “What do you want me to tell you, Killian? That I’m in love with you? _It was just a kiss._ ”

Annoyance flashed through him once again at her words; ‘ _just a kiss_.’ She either truly _did_ believe him to be a complete dolt or she was in a serious amount of denial. “What I _want_ ,” he began, the sweet smell of her perfume invading his senses as he stepped closer to her, “is for you to be _honest_ with me.”

He could practically see the war raging within her as he earnestly met her gaze.

“I am,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Killian sighed and shook his head, his gaze softening. “No you’re not, and you’re not being honest with yourself either.”

“It was a mistake, okay,” she denied stubbornly, “It meant nothing.”

His heart broke for her at the obvious fear in her eyes. How could he reassure her? How could he make her _see_ that he wasn’t going anywhere? “What _I_ felt was far from nothing, Emma, and I know you felt it too,” Killian whispered sadly as he took a step away from her.

If she couldn’t be honest with him, with _herself_ , than least _he_ could do was be honest about his own feelings and hope she would ( _could_ )eventually come around.

“How we may or may not feel about each other doesn’t matter, Killian,” Emma said suddenly, her tone firm.

He inhaled shakily and licked his lips, completely at a loss. “Go ahead then, enlighten me. Why doesn’t it matter?” he asked despondently.

“Because we have a mission,” she began earnestly, “A mission that’s bigger than either of us, a mission that _has_ to come first. Our personal feelings don’t matter. What _does_ is whether or not we can finish what we started.”

“Our personal feelings are what started all of this in the first place. How can you say that they don’t matter now?” Killian asked as he closed the space between them.

Emma exhaled shakily. “We are _so_ close to ending this, Killian, we cannot afford any unnecessary distractions.”

Killian realized then that her fear wasn’t solely about her feelings for him, but a fear that those feelings were going to keep her from focusing completely on avenging her mother. That, perhaps, was something he could understand, even if he didn’t agree.

He’d waited for her this long, he could wait until this was over. He _was_ in this for the long haul, after all.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said softly, nodding and taking a step back to give them both some air.

“Are—are we…okay?” Emma asked hesitantly after a moment of silence.

Killian smiled sadly and met her gaze with his own. “Of course, love,” he said quietly before gesturing to the balcony door, “Shall we?”

He watched her smile in response and nod, before following him inside.

Killian stuck around long enough after that only to say his goodbyes and, once more, congratulate the happy couple.

“G’night, Captain, future Mrs. Captain,” he joked, shaking David’s hand and nodding to Mary Margaret, “Thank you for inviting me, this was lovely.”

The two smiled brightly at one another before returning their attention to him. “Thanks so much for coming, Killian,” Mary Margaret said sincerely, her left hand clasped loosely in her fiancée’s right.

“This was great, we should hang out outside of work more often, Jones,” David said, slurring slightly as he took another swig from the beer in his left hand.

Mary Margaret bit back a smile, meeting Killian’s gaze with laughter in her eyes.

“Definitely,” Killian smiled, scratching behind his ear, “Well, I’m off. Congratulations again.”

Mary Margaret hugged him in thanks (his new ‘mate’ David settling for a mere pat on the shoulder) and said their goodbyes.

The cold, night air hit him like a brick wall when he exited the warm apartment building. Killian shivered involuntarily and buttoned the top buttons of his jacket that he usually left undone before stuffing the edges of the scarf looped around his neck into it. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stepped off the stoop, setting a brisk pace down the sidewalk toward his flat, an odd mixture of cynicism and hope drifting within his head.

* * *

_SUNDAY_

Killian woke with the sun that morning, his internal clock seemingly indifferent to the late hour that he’d gone to bed. He groaned as the light from the window assaulted his eyes. He’d tried in vain to return to sleep, but a half an hour of tossing and turning later, he realized it was pointless and rose to begin the day.

By noon he was caffeinated, fed, showered, and seated on his sofa playing Assassin’s Creed IV. He paused the game as his phone rang.

“Hello?” he asked, slightly breathless after having sprinted to the kitchen.

“ _Killian, it’s me_.”

“Emma, hey,” he greeted, surprise lacing his tone, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“ _Jefferson. He texted me last night_ ,” she said, her tone unusually stilted, “ _He wants to meet tonight. You free?_ ”

“’Course, just tell me when and where,” he said, biting his lip as he leaned over the counter.

“ _Come to the usual place at seven and we’ll go from there_ ,” she instructed tersely.

“As you wish,” he agreed, his brow furrowing as he considered her tone, “I’ll you at seven.”

“ _At seven_ ,” she confirmed in lieu of a goodbye.

Killian frowned at his phone for a moment; he’d known things would probably be tenser than usual between them for a while, but this seemed a bit much. He shrugged it off, deciding he’d see how she was later on.

* * *

“You ready?” Emma asked, adjusting the holster concealed beneath her leather jacket.

“Tell me again why I’m doing this instead of Mary Margaret?” Killian asked as he anxiously tugged at his jacket.

Emma sighed exasperatedly and turned to face him. “Because Jefferson knows you and we need this to go as smoothly as possible.”

“Right,” he responded absently as he readjusted his earpiece for the third time, “How do you two wear these stupid things all the time, they’re bloody irritating.”

“ _Welcome to our world_ ,” said Mary Margaret amusedly via the comms.

“Alright, so how many times are we knocking again?” he asked, studiously ignoring the brunette’s comment and stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“I’ll take care of it,” Emma said, throwing him a look that screamed ‘this is why we make you stay in the van.’

He watched as she performed the somewhat complicated series of knocks they’d been instructed to use and waited. A moment later, there was a click that suggested the door had been unlocked.

“Let’s go,” Emma said lowly, turning to look at him, “Remember what we talked about.”

Killian huffed in irritation and nodded. “Of course, Swan. After you.”

They walked through the large, metal door into a small space that resembled a doctor’s office waiting room without chairs. There was another smaller door across the way that Emma began to make her way to before she was stopped by a cool, female voice over a loudspeaker.

“ _Please wait here, the Hatter will be with you shortly.”_

Emma and Killian looked at each other and raised their eyebrows; this guy was something else.

They ended up waiting mere minutes before the smaller door opened and a burly gentlemen in a suit motioned wordlessly for them to follow him. He led them through a complex sequence of twists and turns before halting in front of an ornately carved wooden door and knocking twice. The door opened to reveal the man himself.

“Evening,” he said simply, a Cheshire grin gracing his lips as he motioned them inside what they assumed was his office.

There was a large, white bureau plat decorated solely with a candelabra in the center of the room; one large desk chair behind it, two white arm chairs before it. The walls were covered in a brown, garishly patterned wall paper, the floor an expanse of lavish, white carpeting. There was a display case full of top hats to their left that spanned the entire wall and a large, unlit fire place in the wall to their right.

“Please, have a seat,” he instructed, closing the door and moving to take the chair behind the desk.

Killian and Emma did as they were asked, seating themselves in the chairs in front of the desk.

“So, where’s this insider of yours?” Emma asked, making a show of looking around the room for them.

Jefferson leaned back in his chair as his smile widened. “All in good time.”

Silence fell between them and Killian shifted uneasily in his chair; this was obviously an intimidation tactic. Jefferson was trying to show them that he was the one in control.

“So, how exactly did you get my number?” Emma asked suddenly, narrowing her eyes at the man.

His smile morphed into a smirk as he studied his nails as if bored by her inquiry. “I have my ways.”

“That’s annoyingly vague,” she countered, crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair.

Jefferson simply shrugged and smiled enigmatically, a knock on the door halting any retort.

“Enter,” he called, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair.

The door opened to reveal a blond man dressed in a dark gray suit and a red tie. He nodded wordlessly to Jefferson as he entered, closing the door quietly behind him, and ambling over to stand on the left side of the desk.

“This is Victor,” Jefferson explained, gesturing to the man with a flourish of his wrist.

Victor nodded to the two of them. “Pleasure,” he said stoically, his hands clasped behind his back.

Emma and Killian shared a quick look before returning their attentions to the men before them.

“Right. So, you’re the one that’s going to help us get inside?” Killian asked, not quite knowing what else to say.

“Yes,” Victor responded, nodding once more, “I have been instructed to provide assistance in any way necessary.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” Emma asked, studying the blond suspiciously.

“Victor is loyal to me,” Jefferson interjected, seemingly insulted at the insinuation that his man was not trustworthy, “You can trust him as much as you can trust me.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at Jefferson. “Who says I trust _you_?”

Jefferson laughed at her response. “Fair enough. I probably wouldn’t trust me either,” he admitted, shifting in his chair so he was leaning over the surface of his desk, “Rest assured, the item I’ve asked you to procure is very valuable to me. As long as _I_ can trust you to retrieve it, _you_ can trust me not to double cross you.”

She studied him for a moment before nodding, accepting his explanation.

“Is there anything you wish to ask Victor while you have him here?” Jefferson asked.

“I have a question,” Killian said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, “If your man here has access to the boxes _and_ the keys, why can’t _he_ get this item you’re so desperate to have?”

A look bordering on impressed flickered across Jefferson’s face as he shook his finger at Killian. “Excellent question,” he said simply, “The answer is relatively simple: taking anything from a box not belonging to him would result in him losing his position and _I_ , in turn, would lose my insider.”

“But if this item is so important to you, isn’t it worth it?” Killian maintained.

“No,” he responded, his mirth suddenly gone, “It took many years to place Victor where he is. I cannot afford to lose him based purely on selfish reasons. There is far too much at stake.”

“If you say so,” Killian said softly, studying the men before him closely.

“Are you able to get us anything _other_ than the keys, Victor?” Emma asked, shifting slightly in her chair.

“Anything pertaining to the job, yes,” he responded, “Did you have something specific in mind?”

Emma nodded and tilted her head in thought. “Blueprints. And anything you have on the security system.”

“Consider it done,” he said simply.

“I have another question,” Killian began, stroking his beard, “Can you, perhaps, give us some idea where Gold might be keeping his key?”

The two men looked at each other momentarily before returning their attention to Killian. “Odds are it’s locked up tight somewhere inside his estate,” Jefferson said as he thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk, “But I’d check his wife’s antique shop first, the security isn’t as extreme.”

Killian nodded and retreated into his thoughts; this job was going to be _quite_ the challenge.

* * *

An hour later, they were on their way back to base. After stowing their van in its usual place, they convened in the clock tower to talk about the next steps of their plan.

“Right, so. Gold’s shop. Any ideas?” Emma asked, leaning against the long, glass table that Killian’s numerous computers sat upon.

“We should probably case it first,” Mary Margaret offered, “Tuesday morning, maybe?”

Emma nodded and shifted her gaze to Killian. “That work for you?”

“Aye. I should probably go in though, I’ll need to see what type of security they’ve got with my own eyes,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and sighing.

“Okay,” Emma acceded, planting her hands on her hips, “I’ll go in with you, maybe I can figure out if there’s a safe and where it might be.”

“So I’m on van-sitting duty again then, huh?” Mary Margaret asked glumly, petulantly crossing her arms over her chest.

“Welcome to _my_ world,” Killian teased, laughing when she threw a pencil at him in retaliation.

“Enough, _children_ ,” Emma scolded as she bit back a smile, “Alright. Tuesday morning, maybe eight-ish? Let’s meet here as always and go from there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mary Margaret said, strolling over to the corner of the room and retrieving the bag she’d brought with her. “I’ve gotta run, I left David alone with my parents and he’ll start texting me if I’m gone too long.”

Emma chuckled and shook her head. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he called as he too readied himself to leave.

A comfortable silence permeated the room as Killian quickly shut off any equipment they’d used. He was making his way to the far corner of the room to turn off the generator when he heard Emma quietly ask, “We can do this, can’t we?”

He halted his movements and turned to look at her, the unaffected façade she usually wore slipping ever so slightly. She wasn’t looking at him, and for a moment he thought she might’ve been talking to herself.

“It’ll certainly be difficult,” he began softly, ambling toward her at a leisurely pace before leaning beside her against the table, “But, yes, I believe we can. We _will_.”

She nodded distractedly and sighed as silence fell between them once more.

He jumped slightly when he felt her head drop to rest on his shoulder a moment later, her scent filling his nostrils and causing his stomach to flip as an ache of longing lodged itself in his chest. “We’re almost out of the woods,” he assured gently, taking her hand and loosely lacing their fingers together, “Just keep hanging in there, Swan.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: This chapter is hella long, I’m sorry. A lot of shit needed to happen so lol I wasn’t able to cut much out. Hopefully that doesn’t stop anyone from reading. There’s a mention of underage drinking somewhere around the middle so if that kinda thing bothers you, maybe skip over that part. Okay, I think that’s all, hope y’all enjoy!
> 
> (Un-beta'ed)

“Alright, guys, we’ve gotta do this fast. My shift at the precinct starts in an hour,” Mary Margaret instructed, gingerly fitting the headset Killian usually wore over her ears.

Emma nodded as she applied the finishing touches to her make up in the rearview mirror. “In and out,” she promised, pressing her lips together to spread the gloss she’d just rolled on.

“What’s our cover exactly?” Killian asked, pulling his leather jacket from the bag he’d brought with him and slinging it over his shoulders. “Assuming anyone asks, that is.”

Emma threw him a look over her shoulder from her place in the front seat and raised her eyebrow. “It’s an antique shop, Killian, what do _you_ think our story is?”

Killian shot her an annoyed glare and combed his fingers through his locks. “I meant specifics, love. For instance, are we shopping for ourselves or for someone else? Are we looking for a dining room table or an armoire? Is there a particular period or will anything work?”

“We’re not actually buying anything, you know that right?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her tone.

Killian rolled his eyes and sighed in mild exasperation. “Bloody hell, Swan, I’m just trying to be prepared. This isn’t exactly my area of expertise, you know.”

“You’ll be fine,” Mary Margaret assured, an amused look in her eyes, “And if you do somehow screw up, I know Emma will happily come to your rescue. This is just recon, Jones, don’t freak out.”

“I’m not ‘freaking out,’” he scoffed, retying his boots to avoid meeting anyone’s knowing eyes.

“Alright, it’s almost eight, let’s get this over with,” Emma said suddenly, making sure her comm was secure and pushing open the door.

Killian followed out the back a moment later, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. They’d opted to park around the corner from French’s Finds and approach on foot in case something went wrong (can’t ID a getaway vehicle you never see).

The bell above the door jingled as they entered, announcing their presence. They hung around the entry way for a few moments, casually inspecting an old writing desk as they waited to see if anyone was going to pop up and ask them if they needed help. When no one did, they shared a look, nodded and split off to take either side of the store.

Emma kept her eyes and ears open as she scanned the area for anything out of the ordinary. She mentally noted the locations of the motion sensors and security cameras hidden in the shop’s various nooks and crannies as she pretended to casually survey a display case of antique model ships. The shop was bigger than she’d anticipated, roughly twice the size of any other specialty shop she’d been in (not that she made a habit of visiting such places, that is).

Her ears perked as she neared the register, recognizing the low timbre of Killian’s voice. She peeked around a bookshelf to survey the situation, only to find him holding an old book and chatting with the middle-aged, bespectacled man behind the glass counter.

 _So easily distracted_ , she thought, smiling slightly and shaking her head.

She pulled a nearby tome off of the shelf she was beside and pretended to inspect it, her eyes flicking up to study the area behind and around the counter every now and then. There was a doorway directly across from her concealed by a dark gold curtain that Emma assumed lead to the back room, the wall was decorated from floor to ceiling in framed paintings, and there was another set of display cases that seemed to house some of the shop’s more expensive pieces lining the wall behind the counter.

Logic told her that if there _was_ a safe somewhere in this shop, it was either in that back room or possibly even hidden behind one of the paintings on the wall.

“Wrap it up, Jones,” she muttered, still pretending to examine the book in her hands as she watched him through her lashes.

She bit back a smile as he started slightly, apparently so absorbed in his conversation that her voice in his ear had startled him. Killian regained his composure and smiled at the shopkeeper in thanks before turning and placing the book in his hands back where he’d found it on the shelf. Emma did the same, quickly retracing her path and meeting him outside.

“Find anything interesting?” she asked, falling into step with him as they returned to the van.

“I think so,” he muttered, his brow furrowed in thought, “What about you?”

She nodded, stuffing her hands into the back pockets of her jeans as they walked. “Definitely some things worth looking into.”

“Right,” he began absentmindedly, raking a hand through his hair, “When do you wanna do this, then?”

Emma shrugged and stopped next to their van, her fingers wrapping themselves around the door handle. “Tonight maybe? Unless you think we need more prep time.”

Killian nodded thoughtfully and ran a hand over his beard. “I do need to check a few things out but it shouldn’t take long. Tonight should be fine.”

“Good,” she smiled, pulling open the driver’s side door and hauling herself inside the carriage.

They went their separate ways soon after; Mary Margaret hightailing it to the station for her shift, Killian deciding to hang out at their base a little longer for research purposes, and Emma dragging herself home for a long, hot shower.

It’d been a long, fairly _odd_ couple of days and the tension that had settled in her shoulders was starting to make her feel like Atlas; the outcome of this job was going to determine the fate of the entire city and Emma didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to stand the pressure.

(Though, if she was truly honest with herself, she was _mostly_ worried about what would happen if and when this was finally over. Everything she was, everything she _had_ , was a direct result of losing her mother; what would she have left, who would she _be_ once Gold was brought to justice?)

* * *

French’s Finds, sadly, turned out to be a bust.

Emma had gone in alone, despite the pleas from her comrades to reconsider; she’d gotten around the security with help from Killian (as per usual), had picked the lock on the backdoor and slipped in undetected. Mary Margaret had been tasked as the look-out (after practically begging to be let out of the van) (she didn’t know _how_ Killian stood it) and was overseeing things from the roof of the building across the street.

It took her twelve minutes to clear the backroom, another eight to locate the wall safe behind the register, and ten to actually crack the damn thing, only to discover nothing more than a few bags of cash for the register and a week’s worth of sales receipts.

This, unfortunately for them, meant that the key was most likely stashed somewhere on Gold’s massive estate. Nine-thousand square feet of stone and brick built into the side of a hill and set behind a ten foot wrought iron gate (complete with guard post).

“We are so screwed,” Emma groaned, her head cradled in her hands.

“We are _not_ ,” Mary Margaret countered, her tone firm, “It’s going to be difficult to get inside, sure, but it’s certainly not impossible.”

Emma lifted her head and shot a half-hearted glare at her best friend. “Your constantly unwavering optimism is giving me an ulcer, Mary Margaret. Let’s try and be realistic here.”

The brunette’s eyes flashed in annoyance as she made her way across the clock tower toward the blonde. “The minute I let go of the belief that things will work out is the minute that I know they won't. We can still pull this off, Emma.”

“She’s right, Swan,” Killian added softly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Besides, we’ve come too far to just give up.”

Her gaze flickered between the duo, the anger she’d felt suddenly evaporating; not for the first time, Emma realized how lucky she was to have these people in her life.

“Alright then. Ideas?” she asked softly, leaning back in her chair.

* * *

It was a week before they caught a break. A week of keeping their ears to the ground, a week of roughing up low-lifes for information, a week of  _waiting_ .

Turned out they’d been looking in completely the wrong place.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret panted, having sprinted up the clock tower stairs, “I think I’ve got something.”

Emma’s gaze quickly flicked to the newspaper clutched in her hand. “What is it?” she asked, turning her chair toward the other woman.

Mary Margaret unfolded the newspaper and held it up with a triumphant smile. “Gold’s wife is throwing a party in two weeks.”

“Rich people throw society galas all the time, Mary Margaret, how does this help us?” Emma asked tiredly, some of the hope that had swelled with in her dissipating.

“It _helps_ because it’s the first time his house has been open to the public in five years,” she retorted, walking over to Emma and handing her the Storybrooke Mirror’s Society section.

“You mean open to the rich and shameless,” Killian corrected, still typing away at the computer in front of him.

Mary Margaret sighed in frustration and placed her hands on her hips. “Look, guys, this is the first prospect we’ve had in days. Can we at least look into it before completely writing it off?”

Emma bit her lip in contemplation as she studied the woman before her. “Okay, what’s the plan?” she conceded, leaning back in her chair.

“All we really need to get inside is an invitation. Shouldn’t be difficult to track one down, or at least get a hold of the guest list,” she presented, excitement alight in her eyes.

“But we’d be going in blind,” Killian interjected, finally spinning his chair around to face her. “I’ve looked everywhere for blue prints of this place and they either never existed or the record has been removed.”

“There’ll be hired hands going in and out of his estate at least up until the night before,” Mary Margaret countered, “Surely we can… _persuade_ one or two of them to give us some idea of the layout.”

Silence permeated the room as Emma and Killian considered Mary Margaret’s proposal. “Worth a try, I guess,” Emma said suddenly, allowing a small smile to grace her lips. “Where do we start, boss?”

* * *

Emma had known Mr. and Mrs. Blanchard were pretty well-off (they  _were_ from Northern Greenwich, after all) but for some reason hadn’t realized that this meant Mary Margaret had also been exposed to this world they were attempting to infiltrate.

As a result, snapping up the invitations ended up being the easiest job they’d pulled in weeks. After acquiring the guest list, all they’d had to do was figure out who was currently out of town and break into their mail box.

“Ms. Leia Wellington,” Emma read before holding the invitation out to Mary Margaret, “Ever heard of her?”

She shrugged and took the card from Emma, “I wanna say she’s the daughter of some ‘rising star’ in the business industry, but don’t quote me on that,” she said, placing the card on the table, “Whoever she is, she’s got a plus one, which means two of us will get in.”

Emma nodded and leaned her hip against the side of the table. Maybe they really could pull this off.

Figuring out who the hired help was turned out to be slightly more difficult, however, but Mary Margaret surprised them yet again when she ‘casually’ ran into none other than Mrs. Gold and sweet-talked her into revealing the information (“She was actually very kind.”).

The cost of retrieving this information, however, was that Killian would now have to go in her place.

“Wonderful,” he grumbled, scrubbing his face tiredly. “I suppose this is a black tie affair?”

“Yep,” Mary Margaret chirped, happily clicking away at the keyboard on one of their many computers.

Killian sighed petulantly and moved to return to his previous task. “Brilliant, that’s going to cost a pretty penny. Can we write this kind of thing off, by any chance?”

Mary Margaret rolled her eyes and shook her head in amusement. “Oh, stop. And don’t worry about finding the proper attire, I’ll take care of it. Just focus on hacking the caterer’s website or whatever the heck it was you were doing.”

He sent her a mild glare and grumbled something about ‘not being appreciated’ before returning to his work.

The gala seemed to come upon them quickly once they’d gotten all their ducks in a row (as well as was possible, at any rate). Mary Margaret had acquire suitable apparel for the both of them, as well as giving them a crash course in proper etiquette; Killian pored over the basic map they’d managed to pilfer from one of the florists, coming to the conclusion that the most likely location of the key was the study located in the basement; Emma methodically went through all the information they had in her head, over and over, making sure it was practically burned into her brain.

They were as prepared as they were ever going to be.

“Do you mind?” Emma asked Mary Margaret as she turned away, the red gown she’d selected for the evening hanging open in the back.

Emma pushed her blonde curls back over her shoulders once she had fastened the row of buttons along the lace back of the gown and nervously adjusted the layered skirt. Mary Margaret lightly slapped her hand away and tilted her chin up so she could finish applying her make up.

“Quit fidgeting, you look great,” she smiled softly, causing a light blush to tint Emma’s cheeks.

She didn’t wear dresses often, let alone a dress like _this_. She didn’t know what the fabric was, but it felt like heaven against her skin, and the lace detailing on the bodice was so intricate it was like a work of art. Mary Margaret had curled her long hair into soft waves, neatly pinning the sides up to keep it out of her face. She’d given her an elegant string of diamonds to wear on her wrist and chain with a simple diamond pendant to wear around her neck.

Emma swallowed as Mary Margaret gently pushed her face to the left and applied a bit of blush to her cheek. It was ridiculous but she was nervous (and not just because they were going to be in the same room with the man responsible for her mother’s death). They’d pulled a lot of impossible jobs over the years but tonight made them all feel like nothing but practice rounds. She reminded herself that this was simply a step, that if they somehow managed to pull this off and get Gold’s key, they _still_ needed to break into Mills and Co.

“All right, done. What do you think?” Mary Margaret said suddenly, nudging her toward the full length mirror in the corner of her bedroom.

Her eyes widened as they fell upon her reflection. It was almost like she was looking at someone else, the striking (yet anxious) woman in the mirror nearly unrecognizable.

She had never been in a wedding, nor had she gone to her prom, but she imagined she’d probably have felt something like this if she had.

“Wow,” she breathed, unconsciously fingering the lace on the bodice of the gown, “You really outdid yourself, Mary Margaret.”

The other woman smiled warmly at her, something that looked suspiciously like pride shining in her eyes. “I didn’t do much,” she claimed, brushing imaginary dust from Emma’s shoulders.

Emma huffed in disbelief and turned slightly to view the back of the gown in the mirror. “’Didn’t do much?’ I look like a freaking _princess_.”

Mary Margaret shook her head and eyed her coolly. “All I did was give you a nice dress and some red lipstick, Emma. The rest is all you.”

She fought back the blush threatening to rise to her cheeks again and turned away from the mirror. “Yeah, whatever,” she muttered, busying herself by looking for the clutch she was taking with her.

“I’m going to go check on Killian. I have a feeling he might need help with a few of his accessories,” Mary Margaret teased after a moment.

Emma nodded wordlessly, the sound of her friend’s footsteps filling the silence.

Her stomach twisted at the sound of his name, her lips tingling as the hazy memory of the kiss they’d shared suddenly flashed through her mind. Sure, they’d talked about it and they’d agreed it was for the best to put any discussion of their feelings for each other on the back burner. But lately the tension that was already between them had gone beyond anything they’d ever had to endure. Like it or not, that kiss had changed things between them and Emma was torn between the fear of losing her friend and the fear of giving into the feelings she had for him.

An abrupt knock pulled her from her thoughts, the door opening a moment later.

“Ready whenever you are,” Mary Margaret told her, poking her head through the space between the door and the jamb.

Emma smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, checking her clutch one last time to make sure she had everything she needed (lipstick, invitation, lock pick, compact 9mm…you know, girly stuff).

The breath backed up in her lungs when her gaze fell on Killian. He was fiddling with his cufflink, a frustrated scowl clouding his features as she studied him in his black-on-black tuxedo. His hair was combed and styled with some kind of product (probably gel, but Emma didn’t really care, if she was being honest), his short beard trimmed neatly. She shook herself when she realized she’d been staring, the knowing look Mary Margaret shot her as she made her way over to help him making her eyes roll.

“Don’t you look dashing,” she teased, her voice breathier than she would’ve preferred.

Killian huffed a laugh as he lifted his gaze from his cuff to meet hers, whatever comeback he’d been about to throw at her dying on his tongue.

She felt another flush rise on her skin when his mouth fell open slightly, a mixture of awe and something decidedly _else_ on his face.

“You look stunning, Swan,” he breathed, his throat bobbing as he composed himself and returned his eyes to hers.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, self-consciously crossing her arms over her chest, “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

“What, this old thing?” he joked, gesturing to himself.

She smiled gratefully, a rush of affection surging through her as she realized he was trying to ease the tension between them.

“Right,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, drawing both of their gazes, “It’s almost go time. You guys ready?”

Emma and Killian shared a quick glance before the both nodded in affirmation.

“As we’ll ever be,” Emma said, mentally steeling herself for the night ahead.

* * *

The black Town Car (equipped with fake plates, naturally) pulled to a stop at the security check point, the driver’s side window rolling down to reveal a short-haired brunette with delicate features.

“Evening,” she said, adjusting the hat on her head so she could meet the guard’s eyes.

The guard grunted in response, the long line of cars before them stealing any niceties he might’ve started his shift with. “Invitation?”

The woman nodded and pulled a card from the inside pocket of her blazer before handing it over to him with a smile.

He mumbled his thanks and brought his walkie to his mouth, reading the name from card to whoever was on the other end. He waited a moment as they presumably checked the list before a static-y, “They’re good,” crackled through.

The guard handed the invitation back to the driver and motioned for his partner to open the gate. “Guest drop off is to the left, parking is in the rear,” he dully, pointing this way and that.

The driver nodded and shifted the car back into drive before rolling up the window.

“We’re in. You guys set back there?” Mary Margaret said, maneuvering the vehicle slowly down the gravely drive toward the guest entrance.

“Think so,” Emma replied, her tone one of forced indifference.

“Well get sure, we’re nearing your drop off point,” she said, stopping behind a short line of cars.

Emma cursed the heart beating wildly in her chest as she anxiously glanced at the house looming ahead of them.

“Wow,” she quietly observed, groaning inwardly at the thought of possibly having to search every room of the massive estate for their key.

“Aye,” Killian agreed, his voice slightly strained.

“You okay?” she asked, retuning her attention to the man beside her.

He nodded as he met her gaze and suddenly the car felt like it was too small. “I just wish we were more prepared, is all,” he said, a contemplative look crossing his face.

“We’ve gotten other jobs done with less, we’ll fine,” she assured, even though she didn’t quite believe her own words.

“Maybe,” he muttered, shifting his attention to something outside of her window, “I suppose we’re about to find out.”

Her head swiveled to the left as the car came to a stop and her door opened. She took the hand the valet offered granted him a small smile of thanks as he helped her from the vehicle. Then Killian was at her elbow, offering her his arm, and she was taking it and he was guiding them up the stairs to the door and they were both nodding to the attendants as they checked their coats.

The grand room was, for lack of a better word, _grand_. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, yellow light about the room. The soft music from the quartet playing off to the right mixed with the murmur of conversation as clusters of finely dressed men and women danced and chatted idly. A few small tables peppered the back part of the room as waiters and waitresses with trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne flitted about the front half.

Emma fought to keep her mouth from falling open in awe as they passed an elaborate spiral staircase on their way through the foyer.

“This place is _ridiculous_ ,” she whispered, leaning slightly closer to man on her arm as she continued to survey the room.

“You can say that again,” he laughed, his breath puffing against her ear and sending an involuntary shiver down her spine.

“Okay,” she began after a moment, lowering her voice as a waiter passed closely by, “I say we slowly make our way to those tables in the back, wait about twenty minutes, and then split off and take turns looking for a way downstairs.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion when she felt him pull her to a stop, her hand still resting in the crook of his arm as she turned to meet his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, afraid he’d spotted Gold or something equally as terrifying.

A slow smile spread across his face as he released her from his hold and turned to face her. “Care to dance, Swan?”

“Are you serious?” she asked, genuinely perplexed. He wanted to _dance_? _Now_?

“Oh, I never joke about dancing,” he teased, offering her his hand.

Emma shot him an unamused glare and pushed his hand down. “We’re in the middle of one of the most dangerous jobs we have ever pulled and you want to _dance_. Are you insane?”

“Come on, love, when are we _ever_ going to be invited to another party like this?” he reasoned, stretching his hand back out.

She observed him silently for a moment before sighing in defeat. “Technically we weren’t even invited to _this_ one, so I’d say slim to none,” she joked, placing her hand in his.

Emma felt her heartrate increase as his smile broadened in response as he pulled her closer, settling his other hand on his waist. They swayed silently for a minute, simply relishing the moment.

“So, how do you know how to do…whatever _this_ is?” Emma asked, silently begging herself to stop trying to figure out the exact shade of blue of his eyes or wondering how kissing him sober would feel.

He chuckled in response, raising an eye brow at her. “It’s called a waltz, and _how_ I know it isn’t important. What _is_ are the rules, and for this dance there’s only one: pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

She smiled fondly at him and shook her head slightly (because seriously, he was _such_ a dork) trying to ignore how every inch of skin touching him tingled, how every glance that passed between them made her mouth run dry, how every smile he threw her way made her heart beat faster beneath her breast, stoking the fire his kiss had ignited with in her all those weeks ago.

He was flirting with her and she was kind of flirting back and she _really_ should’ve put a stop to it because they’re on a job, damn it. But it was fun and she was feeling _good_ (and he was _looking_ good) and even though she knew it wasn’t going to make their relationship any less complicated, she just couldn’t (wouldn’t) break whatever spell they’d fallen under.

“ _I’m in position, guys. Let me know when you’re ready_ ,” Mary Margaret said suddenly, as if she’d somehow heard Emma’s thoughts.

They smiled remorsefully at each other as Killian halted their tour around the dance floor, releasing Emma from his embrace.

“Shall we?” he questioned softly, gesturing for her to lead the way.

She nodded and walked ahead, suddenly much colder than she had been a moment ago.

They placed themselves at a table off to the left, grabbing a flute of champagne each on their way. Idle chit chat was exchanged between them as they bided their time, scanning the room and making mental notes of the exits and where security was and wasn’t positioned.

Emma was the first to explore the room on foot (after about five minutes of hushed arguing and three rounds of rock paper scissors, that is). She stuck to the wall at first, halting every few feet and casually observing her surroundings.

Their plan hit a bit of a snag when a guest of the female variety spotted Killian standing around alone during his second turn about the room and would simply not take the hint no matter how many times he (kindly) rebuffed her. Noting the annoyed edge creeping into his tone via his comm, Emma found him, snaked her arm around his waist, planted a lingering kiss on his cheek, and then turned toward their interloper and introduced herself as his (no, _Charles Hawthorne’s_ ) fiancée.

(And she absolutely did _not_ think about the pleasant way his scruff had tickled her lips when she’d kissed him nor did she acknowledge how nice the light pressure of his hand on the small of her back had felt.)

It took one more circuit (and a trip to the ladies room) to conclude that best path to the basement was the staircase just down the hall from the kitchen. It was a bit tricky as the caterers were bustling in and out, but eventually they made it through without anyone noticing.

Emma winced as her heels clunked loudly on the hardwood of the stairs, earning a wordless glare from the man descending in front of her.

“Sorry,” she mouthed, cringing when they clunked yet again.

“Just take them off, would you?” he whispered heatedly, quickly looking around them in case anyone had heard them.

The room at the base of the stairs was blessedly empty, lit only by a single lamp on the coffee table in the far left corner. There was a kitchenette with a bar to their right, and three closed doors leading elsewhere. According to the maps and bits of information they’d acquired, Gold’s study _should_ be the second door on the left. Killian tip toed over to it and quietly jiggled the handle, huffing a frustrated sigh when he found it to be locked.

Emma dug through her clutch for her lock picks and handed her bag and her shoes to Killian. “Hold these. And keep watch,” she whispered, crouching so she was eye-level with the handle.

He scowled slightly at being ordered around but did as he was asked, turning his back to her and scanning the dimly lit room. The telltale click of the last pin being set and the door unlocking brought a satisfied smile to her face as she rose from her position and turned to her companion.

“It’s all about the tumblers,” she whispered loftily, grabbing her things from Killian’s arms.

He rolled his eyes affectionately at her before moving over to try the knob once more, throwing a mildly impressed look over his shoulder when it turned without resistance. The room was dark as they slipped in, quietly shutting and relocking the door behind them as they waited for their eyes is adjust.

“Do you have a light?” Emma asked, blindly feeling around the wall for a switch or a lamp.

“Now’s not really the time for a smoke, love,” he teased, the sound of his clothing rustling meeting her ears.

Emma rolled her eyes and scoffed. “You know what I mean, Killian.”

He made a tutting sound at her tone as the rustling ceased and a small flashlight clicked on. “No need to be so hostile. Let’s get on with it then,” he said, motioning at her with the light.

The room was far from small but the large, walnut partner’s desk in the center took up the majority of the space. Wooden bookshelves and cabinets lined the walls making the room feel even smaller than it actually was. Emma made moved toward the desk, setting her bag and her shoes down on one of the chairs in front of it. She made her way around to the other side and pulled the desk chair out of the way, motioning Killian over so she could see what they were dealing with.

There were nine drawers, each one with their own lock. Emma groaned and tried pulling open one at random, thinking maybe just the one with their key would be locked.

No such luck.

“This is going to take a while, guys,” she sighed, including Mary Margaret in this revelation as she crouched once more and set to work, “Going radio silent.”

Emma had gone through a _bit_ of a rebellious phase in her early teens and as such had learned the art of lock picking many years prior to her career in law enforcement. Needless to say, she was by no means an amateur. But finesse and knowledge are only going to get you so far. Nine locks. _Nine_. She was good, _really_ good, actually, but this was a tall order even for her. She grumbled in aggravation as the third drawer she’d cracked failed to house the treasure they sought, repositioning herself and begrudgingly starting on the next one.

Two drawers later and Emma was starting to have doubts. Maybe they’d been wrong, maybe Gold kept his key somewhere else, maybe he kept it _on_ him. She scoffed once more as the sixth drawer yielded nothing and turned toward Killian who was watching her with an unreadable expression.

“I don’t think it’s here, Killian, maybe we should just go before we get caught,” she said dejectedly, shaking her head.

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before running a hand over his beard. “Three more, Swan. If it’s not in one of them, we’ll go.”

She bit her lip and held his gaze, the determination she saw there reigniting the flicker of hope that had been squashed only moments ago. “Okay,” she whispered, nodding as she took a steadying breath, “Three more.”

She’d gotten one more open before the sound of footsteps descending the basement stairs made them both freeze. Killian pulled her up quickly, gesturing for her to grab her belongings as he quietly ran over to a closet with a filing cabinet and a few boxes and waved her over.

“In here,” he whispered, clicking off his light when she reached him and shutting them both inside.

The heavy footfalls clunked around the basement, stopping in what Emma assumed was the kitchenette they’d passed earlier. She held her breath as they returned after a moment, the sound getting progressively louder as they made their way toward the study. The jingle of keys met her ears and became clearer as the door to the study was pushed opened. Light flooded the room as their guest entered and made their way over to the right side of the room.

Suddenly Emma was aware of every little thing going on around her; the brush of her dress against her legs, the slight cramping of her hand as she clutched her shoes to her chest, the warmth radiating from Killian, the smell of the aftershave Mary Margaret had given him to wear, his sharp inhale when she accidentally bumped her shoulder against his arm, the rustling of book pages outside the closet door…

The lights were flicked off after what seemed like an eternity and Emma released a relieved breath when the door was shut and the footsteps made their way back upstairs.

“That was close,” she muttered, blindly searching for the door knob in the darkness of the closet.

She heard Killian make a sound of agreement as he clicked his flashlight back on. “Two more?” he asked softly, opening the door.

Emma sighed and nodded, making her way back over to the desk. “Two more.”

Killian decided to wander around the room as she worked on the last two drawers, turning his flashlight toward her whenever she asked (the lack of sight actually helped her focus better on the sound of the pins, she discovered).

Her noise of triumph at opening the final drawer morphed into one of aggravation as, again, there was no key.

“Well that’s it then, I guess,” she grumbled, getting to her feet and smoothing out her dress, “All that work for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Killian said suddenly, a note of mirth in his tone as he turned away from one of the bookcases, “Look what I found.”

Her stomach dropped when her eyes fell on the ornate silver key clasped between his thumb and forefinger.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” she groaned tiredly, cursing under her breath when Killian chuckled breathily and strolled over to her.

“Well, at least we were right about it being in the study,” he reasoned, sliding the key into his inside jacket pocket, “And it appears that work _wasn’t_ actually for nothing.”

Emma huffed and crossed her arms over her middle. “Yeah, picking nine locks I didn’t need to pick _definitely_ wasn’t a waste of time.”

Killian shrugged and stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his slacks. “If you hadn’t been picking those locks, I never would’ve nosed around that bookcase over there. Perhaps everything happens for a reason.”

“Whatever,” she grumbled, picking her things up from where she’d left them on the floor and moving toward the door, “We’ve got it, now let’s get the hell out of here.”

Killian nodded and clicked his light off as he lined up behind Emma at the door. “We got it, Mary Margaret,” Emma whispered, quietly turning the knob and edging the door open.

They made it back to the gala without being seen, slipping down the hall and out onto the veranda as though they’d been there all along. There were a few clusters of people out there as well, chatting idly and admiring the view (which was, admittedly, quite breathtaking). Emma shivered slightly as the cool air assaulted her bare shoulders. She felt Killian shift beside her, placing his jacket on her shoulders a moment later.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, pulling her arms through the sleeves and tugging the material around her.

His response of “Anytime, love” went unheard as her ears perked at the sound of a man laughing from across the veranda.

Her head swiveled toward the laugh, her eyes scouring the crowd as her brain frantically worked to place why it was so familiar. She vaguely registered Killian’s inquiry of whether or not she’s alright as a memory flashed unbidden through her mind, a memory of a day she hadn’t let herself think about in _years_.

( _Suddenly she was sixteen again and at her mother’s wake and there were people offering their condolences and flowers and comfort food and crying and it was all just_ too much _; she had to get out._

_She was on the swing in her backyard when he found her, dressed in an expensive suit._

_“Mind if I join you?” he’d asked softly, hands shoved into his pockets._

_She said nothing, hoping he’d go away if she just ignored him._

_He’d sighed at her lack of a response, taking a step closer._

_“I’m sorry about your mom,” he’d said, hands still in his pockets as he toyed with a rock on the ground with the toe of his dress shoe, “She was an amazing teacher. Her class is…was one of my favorites.”_

_She didn’t reply, her gaze resolutely fixed on the patch of grass she’d been numbly starting at for the last twenty minutes. She heard him take a few more steps toward her, stopping a couple of feet in front of her and the swing._

_“She was an incredible person,” he offered, his voice rough with emotion, “I’m really gonna miss her.”_

_She stole a glance at him from beneath her lashes, something in his voice briefly breaking through the fog she’d be wandering around in for the last few days. His eyes were shinning with barely repressed tears, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed thickly._

_“Yeah, me too,” she whispered, her voice gravelly from lack of use._ )

“No way,” she whispered, disbelief settling over her as she continued to search the veranda.

“Emma, what is it?” Killian asked, his voice tinged with worry.

She froze suddenly as her gaze fell on a group several feet away, her heart practically stopping in her chest when she spotted him. His shaggy brown hair was _oh so_ familiar, as he chose that moment to throw his head back in laughter.

Emma turned quickly away from the group and grasped Killian’s left arm like she was drowning and he was her life raft. “Shit, that’s him.”

“What? Who is?” he asked as he looked around in confusion.

( _It was late. The wake had ended hours ago, her brother so emotionally drained he’d gone up to bed the second everyone had left._

_The light breeze blowing through the trees was as warm as the arm pressed against hers. She raised the bottle of port to her lips and took a hearty pull, swishing the red liquid around in her mouth a bit before swallowing. She wobbled a little as she straightened her neck, resting the bottle on her thigh and waiting for her head to stop spinning._

_“Your turn,” she slurred, smacking her lips and holding the bottle out to the boy beside her._

_He wordlessly took it from her, grasping it by the neck and tipping his head back to take a swig._

_“Okay, here’s one,” he said, placing the bottle on the deck between them, “Never have I ever been as drunk as I am right now.”_

_She busted out laughing, the alcohol making her feel lighter than she had all week. Emma turned toward him, the scent of his cologne making her dizzy. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbows, his suit jacket discarded hours before when the two of them had been sitting at her kitchen table swapping stories about her mom._

_They’d moved on to drowning their sorrows in the backyard not long after David had passed out from exhaustion, their serious conversation morphing into one silly game after another. She swallowed as she watched him loosen his tie, muttering indignantly about how hot he was. Emma found herself mentally agreeing as he moved to unbutton the top few buttons of his shirt, sighing in relief when a light breeze blew through and tousled his hair._

_“I’ve got another one,” she blurted suddenly, her eyes falling to his lips, “Never have I ever made out with a complete stranger in my backyard.”_

_The full meaning of what she’d said took a moment to register in his alcohol-laden brain, but he turned to her a minute later, his hooded gaze flickering to her lips as they leaned toward each other._

_When she woke the next morning, she doesn’t remember much beyond the throbbing in her skull but knew from the bruising on her lips and the state of her hair, that their make out session must’ve been pretty spectacular._

_They hadn’t crossed paths again after that night, nor had they sought each other out, but he was always there in the back of her mind; just another piece of the tragic puzzle that was her past._ )

“Neal,” she muttered, as he chose that particular moment to turn to the side, confirming her suspicions.

“Did you just say Neal?” she heard Killian ask after a pause, an odd tone to his voice.

“Yeah, why?” she questioned distractedly, moving so she was turned away but could still keep her eye on him.

Killian’s silence drew her attention back to him. “What is it?” she asked, eyeing him concernedly.

“Did you know that Gold has son?” he asked tightly, his jaw clenching.

“What?” she asked, confusion marring her features, “What does that have to with anything?”

He paused a moment before dragging his gaze to meet hers. “His son’s name is Neal, Emma,” he said simply, his eyes boring into hers.

She looked at him in disbelief after a moment of silence, realizing what he was insinuating. “Are you suggesting that _he_ is Gold’s son? Because I know for a fact that isn’t the case.”

“Really,” he began, crossing his arms over his chest, “What makes you so sure?”

“First of all, I’ve met him and his name Cassidy _not_ Gold. Second of all, he was at my mother’s funeral, a place Gold’s _spawn_ would have no reason to be,” she whispered back hotly, indignation burning in her chest.

Killian considered her for a moment, his eyes flickering briefly back to where Neal was standing. “Emma, what are the chances of Gold’s son and your friend not only having the same name, but also attending _this_ particular party?”

“It doesn’t matter what the chances are, Killian, they don’t have the same last name,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Has it not occurred to you that perhaps the _spawn_ , as you so delicately put it, of someone like Gold might not have wanted to deal with the stigma that comes with that last name?” he asked, his eyes begging her to see reason.

Emma scoffed and shook her head. “That is _ridiculous_ , are you even listening to yourself?”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the chiming of a glass from the grand room next door. They glanced briefly at each other before filtering off of the veranda with the other guests. Emma slipped off Killian’s jacket as they entered the room and wordlessly handing it back to him.

There was another bout of chiming that brought her attention to the slight commotion on the small stage the quartet had been playing on earlier.

“ _Um, guys? We might have a problem…Stand by for a second while I check something out,_ ” Mary Margaret informed them suddenly.

Panic surged through her as she snapped her head toward Killian. “A problem?” she mouthed, concern evident on her face.

His reply is cut off once more as the voice of none other than Ignotus Gold suddenly filtered through the room. Her stomach dropped when her gaze fell on him dressed smartly in a tux, solid gold cane in his hand as he addressed the crowd from his place on the stage.

“I just wanted to take a moment and thank you all for celebrating with us today,” he said, a smile on his lips that didn’t quite meet his eyes as the crowd clapped politely, “It will come as no surprise to most of you that my past is a bit of a dark one, a darkness I roamed alone for many years. Meeting, and eventually marrying, this woman pulled me away from all of that and it’s something I’ll be forever grateful for. So, I want you all to raise a glass to my wife. My light in the darkness. My Belle.”

Emma stared in bewilderment as a petite brunette in a white gown climbed onto the stage and pulled Gold into a kiss. She watched as they pulled away and smiled at each other, causing her stomach to churn. How could someone so terrible be allowed to be so happy? All of the lives this man had destroyed over the years and instead of a jail sentence, he got a loving wife? How was that fair?

But the rage coiling through her suddenly froze in her veins when none other than Neal Cassidy joined Gold and his wife on stage and happily engulfed them in a hug. She knew then that Killian had been right, he _was_ Gold’s son. The betrayal cut through her as she watched them, her brain cruelly playing bits and pieces from that night across her mind’s eye.

“Emma,” she heard Killian say, the rushing in her ears almost completely drowning him out, “Emma, we need to go.”

The sensation of being turned and strong hands grasping her shoulders abruptly brought her back to reality.

“Go?” she mumbled, shaking her head to clear her mental fog.

“Didn’t you hear Mary Margaret, love?” he asked, dragging his left hand down her right arm and grasping her hand in his as he turned away slightly, “Security is barring the exits, we need to get out of here _now_.”

“Barring the exits?” she repeated, allowing him to lead her toward a hallway they hadn’t been down yet, “Why?”

He shook his head and glanced quickly around them, dragging her into the hallway that lead to the library. “She wasn’t sure. Just heard them mention it over the channel she’s been monitoring.”

“Shit,” she muttered, still struggling somewhat to regain her senses, “The laundry room.”

Killian shot a questioning look over his shoulder as he continued to search for an exit.

“On the map, there was a door that lead outside in the laundry room,” she explained, trying to figure out where they currently were.

“Brilliant. So where’s the laundry room?” Kilian asked, trying one of the doors on the left side of the hall.

“Across from the library and three doors down,” she recited, pausing when footsteps sounded down the hall behind them.

Panicking, she spotted a storage closet a few steps away, wretched the door open, grabbed the lapels of Killian’s jacket, and hid them both safely behind the louvered door. A trio of security guards marched by a few moments later as Emma tried to ignore how she was pressed against the length of Killian’s body due to the lack of space. Their breaths mingled as they waited a few extra moments, just in case someone else followed, more before inching open the door and slipping out.

“Alright, let’s find that laundry room,” Killian muttered, dragging a hand through his hair and glancing up and down the hall.

Emma swallowed and nodded, walking ahead of him and peeking around the corner.

It took them ten minutes to locate the laundry room, only to discover that the door she’d seen on the map actually lead to one of the house’s many garages. This would’ve been fine had a security booth not stood between them and the outside world.

“ _Where are you guys?_ ” Mary Margaret asked, her tone anxious.

“We’re in the southwest garage pinned down by security. Is there any way you can bring the car around and give us a hand?” Emma whispered, taking a quick peek at how many guards were in their way.

“ _On my way_.”

“How many are there?” Killian asked, leaning closer to her so he could hear her.

“Four,” she responded, hoping their back up came quickly.

“We could take them,” he assured, an eager look on his face.

She knew she could take two on her own, but four? “No, it’s too risky. We’re waiting for Mary Margaret.”

Killian scoffed and inched closer. “Come on, Emma, let me help. Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Yeah, but—“ she began, biting her lip as he cut her off.

“I can throw a bloody punch, Swan, I’m not completely inept,” he said defensively.

Emma sighed in defeat and peeked around the corner again. “Fine,” she agreed, her tone firm, “But stick close to me. And don’t do anything stupid.”

He nodded enthusiastically and pushed off of the wall he’d been leaning against, readying himself to follow her.

Emma pulled the 9mm from her clutch and wrapped the strap around her wrist for safe keeping. She then glanced around the corner, mentally cataloguing the positions of the guards, and took a steadying breath.

“Get ready to run,” she whispered, switching the safety off of her pistol.

She rounded the bend, aimed her gun, and shot off one round into the wall of the booth. The guards yelled in surprise and ducked for cover and Emma took the opportunity to sprint toward the garage’s exit, Killian hot on her heels. She fired off another round mid-run, hoping it would dissuade them from following.

Unfortunately that only lasted so long as apparently one of them _also_ had a gun. She ducked behind one of the cars, pulling Killian with her when she heard a shot ring out, muttering a curse when the sound of boots on concrete met her ears.

“Run to the door when I tell you,” she whispered, grabbing Killian arm and preparing to haul him up with her.

She rose suddenly from behind the car, pulling Killian with her and screaming “Go!” as she fired off another few rounds, bringing down one of the guards with a shot to the leg. They burst through the door and out onto the drive, quickly scanning the patio for any other threats.

“Where are you, Mary Margaret?” Emma asked, positioning herself behind a column.

There was no answer as the guards suddenly poured through the garage door, the one with the gun on point.

“Shit,” she muttered, firing off another few rounds and scattering the group as they ran for cover.

“Ever fired a gun before?” she asked Killian suddenly, flattening herself against the column.

He eyed the gun somewhat warily before meeting her gaze. “Do video games count?”

Emma sighed and pushed the weapon into his palm as an opposing shot ricocheted off of a nearby column. “Basics are pretty much the same: point it at the bad guys and pull the trigger.”

He swallowed and nodded, concern flashing across his face. “Wait, where are you going?”

“ _I_ am gonna go take these ass holes out and _you_ are gonna cover me from here,” she explained, stealing a quick glance around the side of the column.

“As you wish,” he mumbled, switching positons with her.

She sprinted suddenly across the drive, taking cover behind the column a few yards away. A shot rang out as Killian fired a round in the general direction of the guards and Emma used the distraction to duck behind a nearby parked car. More shots were exchanged, some of them bouncing off of her chosen hiding place. She peeked around the back end of the car and spotted the nearest guard (thankfully the one with the gun) crouching behind a large decorative fountain, Killian drawing his attention as he fired off another couple of rounds.

Emma made a break in his direction, managing to keep him from seeing her for at least most of the way. She sprinted around the fountain as he swiveled himself to point his weapon at her, swerving out of the way just in time to miss getting hit. She grabbed his forearm when she was close enough, angling the gun away from her, punching him in the side and using his wavering balance to throw him into the bricked side of the fountain, successfully knocking him out.

“Watch out!” she heard Killian call suddenly, narrowly missing the clenched fist of another one of the guards.

She stumbled as she moved away, crawling as she fought to regain her balance (which was not easy in the four inch heels she was currently wearing). She used her position to throw a kick into her attacker’s gut, watching with mild satisfaction as he doubled over in pain. Her gaze fell on the gun she’d kicked away from the first guard’s hold as she moved to get up. She swiped it off of the ground and rose to her feet just as the guard caught his breath and advanced on her once more. She pointed the weapon at him and pulled the trigger, only to discover that the clip was empty. Mentally cursing, she attempted to sidestep another attack from him, a second too late as his balled fist knocked against her ear. She stumbled again, empty gun still in hand, as she shook herself to regain her wits. She grasped the barrel in her hand and swung her fist at him, hitting him in the temple with the butt of the gun.

She watched him fall to the ground and gingerly touched her ear, wincing when it was tender to the touch. The sound of splashing water reached her ears and turned her attention back to the fountain, the breath backing up in her lungs at the scene before her. Killian was trashing against the other guard’s hold, his head beneath the shallow water. Emma dropped the useless gun and moved toward them, wrapping her arm around the guard’s neck and using her body weight to pull him off of Killian. He elbowed her in the stomach before she could get another shot in, knocking the wind out of her.

He staggered to his feet as she fought to catch her breath, throwing a punch at her. She ducked away from it and rammed her shoulder into his middle, knocking him away from her. She straightened as he attempted to regain his balance and lobbed a kick to the side of his head. She doubled over as he fell, trying to catch her breath.

“Killian, are you okay?” she panted, hands on her knees.

She turned toward him when he didn’t respond, her heart stopping when she spotted him wet and unconscious on the ground. Stumbling over, she fell to her knees beside him, grasping his face between her palms.

“Killian? Killian wake up!” she shouted, panic surging through her when she realized he wasn’t breathing.

She released his face and repositioned herself at his shoulders before bringing her hands to the center of his chest and clasping them together. She used her upper body to push the heel of her hand into his chest several times, attempting to stimulate his heart.

“Don’t you dare die on me, you idiot,” she muttered frantically, pinching his nose and lifting his chin.

She swallowed back a sob as she bent over him, placed her mouth atop his, and blew air into his lungs. She forced herself not to panic when he didn’t immediately come to, moving back to her position at his shoulders and retrying the chest compressions.

He awoke coughing and gasping for air during her third round of chest compressions. Emma pulled him back against her chest as his breathing normalized, relief flooding her body as she stroked his damp hair and murmured soothingly against his temple. She held him like that for a moment, unsure if the moisture on her cheeks was from his hair or her tears.

Emma started as a figure sprinted up the drive, sagging with relief when she realized it was just Mary Margaret.

“You’re really making a habit of showing up after the brawls, aren’t you?” she quipped hoarsely, still cradling Killian in her lap, almost afraid to let him go.

Mary Margaret surveyed the scene before her with her mouth open. “What the hell happened?”

“I told you. Brawl,” she explained, looking down at the man in her arms, “You alright, Jones?”

He nodded wordlessly, shifting so he was sitting up. “My wrist,” he croaked, pulling at his left sleeve.

Mary Margaret crouched beside him as Emma sluggishly pulled herself to her feet. She winced when she pulled the fabric back, the skin already beginning to bruise.

“Can you move it?” she asked, gingerly touching the area.

He cried out in pain when he attempted to bend it, shaking his head as he cradled it against his chest. “I think it’s broken.”

Emma and Mary Margaret shared a troubled look as they each moved to help him up.

Emma rode with him in the back of the Town Car, using the flashlight in his jacket to check whether or not he had a concussion.

“I’m fine, Swan,” he muttered tiredly, resting his head against the top of the seat when she released his face.

“No, you’re not,” she said gruffly, clicking off the light and taking a shaky breath, “Your wrist is broken, remember?”

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose and blearily met her gaze. “As if I could forget.”

She swallowed thickly and sent him a shaky smile, leaning back next to him. “You died,” she whispered, biting her lip as her vision blurred.

“And you brought me back,” he replied softly, threading the fingers of his uninjured hand with hers and resting his head against hers, “ _Thank you_.”

She squeezed his hand and nodded in response, not trusting her voice, as she blinked and sent a string of hot tears down her cheeks.

The check point at the gate was vacant when they pulled up, the gate securely closed. Mary Margaret exited the vehicle, checked the surroundings, and then proceeded to break into the booth and open the gate herself.

* * *

Killian fell asleep on their way out, which made switching cars slightly more difficult.

They’d ditched the fake plates about two miles outside of Gold’s estate and took as many back roads as possible on their way back into the city. They cleared and abandoned the Town Car at an old parking garage near the Ruins, driving back the remainder of the way in their usual van.

Mary Margaret dropped Emma and Killian off at her apartment and went off to stash the van. Killian’s wrist had swelled quite a bit during the whole ordeal, which made removing his tux a bit more difficult. Mary Margaret had rejoined them just when Emma had managed to remove his jacket; they’d ended up having to cut the sleeve of the shirt so they could get his arm out without hurting him.

“Why couldn’t we just go straight to the hospital again?” he asked wearily, pulling off his dress shoes with his uninjured hand.

“Because then we’d have to explain the tux and the evening gown,” Mary Margaret said, holding a short-sleeved flannel button down open for him to shrug into.

“Right,” he muttered, wincing as he slowly threaded his injured arm through the hole.

Emma returned to the room from the kitchen, ice pack in hand, and walked over to him. “For the swelling,” she said, carefully placing the pack on his wrist.

He sighed in relief a moment later, the tension in his shoulders dissipating slightly. “Thanks.”

She muttered a “you’re welcome” motioned to his opened shirt. “You need help with that?”

Killian looked down at himself and then back at her. “If you don’t mind.”

Emma waved him off as if it wasn’t a big deal, cursing inwardly when her knuckles accidentally grazed the skin of his chest, causing her to fumble with a few of the buttons.

Mary Margaret returned with his jeans a moment later and insisted Emma change out of her dress. She nodded and went to her room, exiting a few minutes later in a fresh t-shirt and a pair of jeans. She was on her way to rejoin her partners in the living room, when the sound of a key in her lock stopped her.

The door was unlocked and open before she could warn the others.

It was David.

“Thank God you’re here,” he breathed when he spotted her, engulfing her in a relieved hug.

Emma hugged him back, wincing slightly when his hand grazed the ear that had been punched. “Where else would I be?” she asked, confused as to why he was there.

“I’ve been trying to call you for the last three hours,” her brother said, pulling back from her and eyeing her in confusion, “What happened to your ear?”

She mouthed wordlessly at him for a moment, unsure how to respond, when Mary Margaret suddenly rounded the corner with Killian in tow. “Alright, let’s— _David_ ,” she said, eyes wide with surprise.

Emma watched as David’s eyes drifted between the three of them, taking in the parts of the chauffer costume his fiancée was still sporting and Killian’s black eye and broken wrist.

“Okay, anyone wanna tell me what’s going on here?” he asked, scrubbing a hand tiredly over his face.

Emma and Mary Margaret shared a look as silence fell over the group.

“Could we possibly have this discussion in the car?” Killian asked, grimacing as he gestured to his wrist.

“Yeah, yes, God I’m sorry,” Emma said, slipping past her brother and grabbing her keys and wallet, “You too bro.”

David turned to look at her, his expression suddenly anxious. “Emma, there’s something I need to tell you—“ he began as Emma took him by the wrist and guided him back out the door.

“Yeah, I have a few things I need to tell you too, I guess,” she said, raking a hand through her hair, “It can wait, come on guys.”

* * *

Two hours later, Killian’s wrist had been x-rayed and encased in a cast and the doctor was ordering him to stay overnight for observation (turns out he  _did_ have a slight concussion, among other things). Emma tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he slept, a combination of pain medication and exhaustion having knocked him out about a half an hour before. She walked to the door and turned to look at him again, biting her lip as she shut off the lights.

“Emma,” David said softly as she exited, “Got a sec?”

She nodded and stuffed her hands into her back pockets. “Where’s Mary Margaret?”

“She went downstairs to get some coffee,” he said, leading her to a cluster of empty chairs just outside Killian’s room, “Emma, we need to talk.”

Emma sighed in resignation and plopped down in one of the chairs. “Yeah, I know.”

He was silent for a moment as he sat in the chair across from her, reaching forward and grasping both of her hands. “This isn’t easy for me to tell you,” he began, grimacing and averting his gaze.

“What is it, what happened?” she asked, anxiety suddenly bubbling in her gut.

David swallowed thickly and looked her in the eye. “Graham is dead.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: If anyone is still reading this, I apologize for the ridiculous delay. This is the angstiest thing I’ve ever written, so I think that’s why it took me 4 months to write lmao. Anyway, I hope it’s worth the wait for at least one of you. ♥
> 
> (Un-beta'ed)

Emma stared numbly at the wall across from her as a sharp coldness settled suddenly over her heart.

Graham was dead.

Her mentor, her role model, her friend: _gone_.

Just like everyone else she’d ever been foolish enough to love.

(She ignored the voice in her head that reminded her that this was the farthest thing from the truth, ignored the warm, comforting pressure of her brother’s hands cradling hers.)

“How?” she whispered numbly, leaning back in her chair.

David sighed and bit his lip. “Heart failure. They don’t know the cause yet, but they suspect an overdose.”

Emma furrowed her brow in confusion and dragged her eyes over to meet her brother’s. “No way. Graham would _never_.”

David sighed and briefly averted his gaze. “Maybe. Or maybe we didn’t know him as well as we thought,” he said, his tone soothing despite his accusation.

She shook her head and leaned toward him slightly. “Maybe _you_ didn’t, but _I_ did. He had his flaws, sure, but that wasn’t one of them.”

“You and I both know that people aren’t always what they appear to be,” he countered, the sliver of hurt look in his usually warm blue eyes causing guilt to churn hotly in her gut.

She swallowed thickly and unconsciously squeezed his hands tighter. “David--,” she began, her mouth suddenly dry as she rushed to explain.

He shook his head wordlessly and gently pulled his hands from hers and rose to his feet. “Do you not trust me?” he asked quietly before pressing his mouth into a thin line.

Emma’s heart broke at his wounded tone. “Of course I trust you, more than _anyone_.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his eyes beseeching.

“I was trying to protect you,” she feebly argued after a moment.

David scoffed, irritation mixing suddenly with the hurt in his eyes. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” he said, raking his hand through his short hair.

She averted her gaze to the clasped hands in her lap as a wave of shame rushed through her. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you wouldn’t approve,” she whispered hoarsely.

David sighed and took a seat in the chair beside his sister. “You’re right, I don’t,” he began firmly, placing his hand over her clasped ones, “But you’re not a kid anymore, Em, you don’t _need_ my approval.”

Her eyes flicked quickly back to his. “I know, I just…I don’t want to lose you,” she said, swallowing thickly as her vision began to blur slightly.

Her brother’s eyes softened as he quickly moved to cradle her face in his hands. “Hey, you will _never_ lose me. No matter what happens, I will always be here for you.”

“Promise?” she asked weakly, her voice now thick with unshed tears.

A small smile briefly quirked his lips as if her question had reminded him of some fond memory from their childhood. “Promise,” he confirmed softly, leaning over to place a kiss on her forehead.

* * *

 

She woke with a start a couple of hours later with a crick in her neck (the hazards of falling asleep in a hospital waiting room chair). Rising to her feet, she gingerly moved her head in an effort to work out the kink and sighed at the satisfying ‘crack’ it made. A glance at her watch told her it was just after three in the morning as she automatically moved toward Killian’s room, wondering briefly where her brother and future sister-in-law had disappeared off to.

Emma gently pushed open the cracked door upon her arrival, careful to not let any of the light from the hallway into the darkness of his room. She paused a few steps in, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the change, before tip toing over to the bed in the center of the room. He was just as she’d left him, fast asleep, blanket still tucked in at his shoulders, eyes twitching as he dreamed. A wave of emotion swept over her as she watched him, her fingers suddenly itching to push the hair on his forehead away from his eyes.

So she did.

His hair was soft and thick as she lightly ran her finger tips over the strands. He stirred on her third swipe across his forehead, chasing her touch with his head and sighing contentedly when she gently cupped his cheek. Emma swallowed thickly and bit her bottom lip as it began to quiver, his near-miss at the gala playing over and over in her mind, more so after learning about Graham.

_Graham_.

Their time together flashed suddenly in her mind’s eye, just as it had when she’d lost her mother.

Her first case, her first ride-along, her first crime scene, her first interrogation, their first win as a team (the celebratory round of drinks that followed), their first loss (“You can talk to me, you know, if you want,” he’d told her)…

A sob lodged itself in her throat at the sudden realization that she’d never hear his laugh again, never see another smile, never again be on the receiving end of that look in he’d throw her when she teased him (a delicate balance of annoyance and affection).

How could he just be _gone_? It didn’t seem real.

The sound of murmuring and the rustle of fabric reached her ears, abruptly dragging her back to the present. Her eyes fell to Killian as he shifted, his eyes opening groggily.

“Emma?” he muttered, his voice thick was sleep.

She smiled weakly in response before realizing that he probably couldn’t make out her features in the darkness. “It’s me,” she whispered, pulling her hand away from where it’d come to rest on his neck.

He blinked sleepily up at her with unfocused eyes. “My arm hurts.”

She huffed a quiet laugh and moved to leave the room. “I’ll go find your nurse.”

The feel of his good hand fumbling for hers made her pause. “Stay,” he mumbled, clumsily lacing his fingers with hers.

Emma swallowed in an effort to wet her suddenly dry throat, her eyes glued to their clasped hands. “Okay.”

She grabbed the nearest chair with her free hand, dragged it to the side of his bed, and sat herself down; he was already asleep again by the time she’d made herself comfortable.

* * *

 

Graham’s funeral was brief and intimate.

David delivered the eulogy (they had asked Emma but she just _couldn’t_ ) after a local minister had said a few words.

The morning sunlight streamed through the clouds as they lowered the oak coffin into the earth, an annoyingly ironic contrast to the storm of grief and sadness raging within her.

Yet she didn’t cry.

She knew he’d stayed behind with her afterward, could practically feel the worry rolling off of him. So when he shuffled up beside her and clasped her hand with his uninjured one, she merely leaned into him, wordlessly accepting the solace he offered.

She’d have to return to work tomorrow, would have to face the fact that his empty desk would stay empty, that his worn leather jacket would never again rest on the back of his chair, that the scent of his cologne would no longer fill their patrol car and force her to roll down the windows in retaliation…

Face the fact that she would now be working cases on her own (and yet, the idea that her brother would most likely assign someone else to work with her was worse; as if anyone would ever be good enough to replace him).

Emma pushed these thoughts away as a cool breeze blew through her hair; she’d deal with those challenges when she faced them. Right now, though, she’d simply remember her friend and wish him peace.

* * *

 

The breath is knocked from her lungs as her back hits the concrete wall of the building. Gasping for air, Emma regained her footing, ducking just in time to miss yet another punch to the gut.

“And here I thought this was going to be a challenge,” her adversary mocked, flipping her auburn hair casually over her shoulder.

Emma sneered and shrugged nonchalantly as she turned to face the other woman. “Maybe I’m just going easy on you.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” she laughed before making another run at her.

Emma stepped to the side as she neared, grabbing a handful of her hair and redirecting her toward the wall. She growled and twisted to the side, hitting the wall with her shoulder and attempting to knee Emma in the stomach. Releasing her grip, Emma stepped back as the other woman pushed off of the building and threw a fist at her face.

Emma blocked the hit with her forearms and pushed her opponent to the side, effectively destabilizing her, before throwing a punch of her own. The sickening crack of her nose breaking echoed throughout the alley as she stumbled away, howling in pain.

“You’re gonna pay for that, bitch,” she threatened thickly, blood dripping down her chin, her chest heaving.

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t you say you wanted this to be challenging?” Emma mocked, a smirk on her lips.

The other woman glared and pulled something from the pocket of her jeans before rushing at her once again; it wasn’t until she was a few feet away that Emma saw that she was now armed with a knife. The small blade sliced through the air inches from her right ear as she grabbed the woman’s wrist and used all her strength to push it away.

Emma followed as she staggered back a few steps, lobbing a kick at the woman’s arm in an attempt to dislodge the knife. Her grip only tightened around the weapon, her knuckles turning white from the strain as she took another swipe at Emma.

She hissed in unexpected pain as the blade sliced through the barrier of her jacket and nicked her arm. The other woman’s bloody smirk sent a flash of annoyance through Emma as she quickly shook off the attack and threw a kick to her opponent’s chest.

She hit the wall again with a grunt, scrambling to regain her balance as Emma charged and grabbed her arm, knocking it against the side of the building until the knife was released.

“Give it up, Jacqueline,” Emma ordered, using her body weight to pin the other woman to the wall.

The phone in Emma’s pocket buzzed suddenly, distracting her and giving Jacqueline the window she needed to twist one of her arms free and elbow Emma in the side.

“Name’s Jack,” she panted as Emma stumbled away.

Emma rolled her eyes and righted herself. She was prepared this time when ‘Jack’ took another run at her; a quick punch to the jaw, a swipe at the legs, and she was pinning Jack to the ground and pulling her cuffs from her belt.

She was handing the master thief off to Red fifteen minutes later, nodding wordlessly in thanks as she turned away and started back toward the van. Her phone buzzed again as she maneuvered the vehicle into its usual space and threw the tarp over it. Emma sighed and pulled the device from her pocket, clucking her tongue when she looked at the screen.

_4 unread text messages._  
2 missed calls.  
1 new voicemail.

After clicking the button for her voicemail, she placed the device to her ear and prepared herself for what was probably an admonishing message from her older brother; it’d been a week since he discovered her secret and he wasn’t any closer to accepting her choice of extracurricular activities. Her heart stuttered slightly in her chest when another voice met her ears.

_“I’m assuming since you’ve not answered any of my texts that you are otherwise engaged,”_ said Killian, his tone weary, _”Mary Margaret said you’d gone out on your own. You should’ve called me, Swan, you know I’d gladly be the Alfred to your Batman.”_ Emma’s lips quirked at the reference as she slipped the bag holding her gear over her shoulder. _“Anyway, let me know when you’re done, just so I know things went alright.”_

Emma bit her lip and pulled the phone away from her ear, her finger hovering over the keypad as she considered whether or not to delete the message. She simply ended the call after a moment, telling herself she’d worry about it later, as she made her way to the street that lead to the clock tower.

Opening her messages revealed two from Killian, one from her brother, and another from a private number. Furrowing her brow, she tapped the message to open it; _the shadow swallowed the hunter_ , it said. She studied the words for a moment, attempting to find the meaning behind them. Her brother’s face popped up on her screen then, indicating he was calling her. Sighing, she swiped the button to accept the call and unlocked the back door to the clock tower.

* * *

 

“Absolutely not.”

“Come _on_ , David, just let me see the report.”

“I said no, Emma. The M.E. doesn’t have time to argue with you. And frankly, neither do I.”

She huffed and rose to her feet as her brother moved to exit his office. “Who says I’m going to argue with the M.E.?”

David rolled his eyes and raised a brow at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

Emma sighed and pushed her hair behind her ears. “I need this, David. _Please_.”

He studied her for a moment as she stared imploringly into his eyes. “Fine,” he sighed, throwing up his hands in resignation, “On one condition: after this, you stop. You let it go and you move on. Deal?”

“Deal,” she agreed, smiling as he unlocked his filing cabinet, pulled out a folder with Graham’s name on it, and handed it to her.

“I want that back first thing tomorrow,” he said as Emma turned to exit the office.

“You got it, boss,” she retorted softly, clutching the folder to her chest.

Her eyes were glued to the floor as she made her way back to her desk, still unable to bring herself to look in even the general direction of her partner’s desk. She slipped the folder into her bag upon her return before glancing at her watch. She had a meeting in an hour with the person conducting her detective exam, one she _needed_ to be alert for.

“Afternoon, Nolan.”

Emma jumped at the unexpected voice and turned to face its source. “Locksley, hey. What’s up?”

The detective offered her a sympathetic smile and slightly lifted the box in his arms. “The Captain and I were gathering up Humbert’s things and erm, well we thought maybe you might like to have them.”

His words hit her like a punch to the chest, knocking her off balance in every sense of the word. “Oh, okay. Thanks,” she said, willing herself to at least appear nonchalant as she stuffed her hands in her back pockets.

Locksley nodded wordlessly and placed the box on the corner of her desk. Emma responded to his wave of goodbye with a strained smile and a nod before flicking her eyes down to it; she could see his signature leather jacket poking out from beneath a pair of his work boots, the corner of a picture frame, that stupid worn out t-shirt with the police academy logo he sometimes wore when he went for a mid-day jog…

Emma tore her eyes away when she felt the panic begin to rise in her throat. A glance at her watch reminded her of that meeting she had soon and redirected her attention to what she’d been doing before Lockley had emotionally ambushed her.

Spinning on her heel, she left the detective bullpen and made her way toward the computer forensics department.

* * *

 

“Got a few minutes?” Emma asked, leaning against the side of Killian’s desk.

He halted his typing (which was infinitely slower these days with the cast on his wrist) and met her eyes. “I suppose. Everything alright?”

Emma shrugged and averted her gaze to the floor. “As alright as it can be, I guess.”

“Whatever you say, love,” he said softly, a knowing look undoubtedly in his eyes, “So, what do you need?”

“Coffee,” she said, dragging her gaze back to his now that it was safe, “Wanna join me?”

Raising a surprised brow, he smiled softly and nodded. “I’d be delighted. Lead the way.”

A few minutes later saw them out by the loading dock with two mugs of steaming, fresh brew. Emma moaned quietly in delight as the hot liquid flowed down her throat and awakened her senses.

“So, how are things in IT?” she asked with faux innocence.

Killian chuckled and took a sip from his mug. “Just fine, thanks. Though I’m not much help at the moment with this blasted thing on my arm.”

Emma bit her lip and leaned her hip against the railing in front of them. “Sorry about that.”

“What are _you_ sorry for, Swan? You’re not the wanker that broke my wrist.”

“I know, I just,” she began, pausing to take a pull from her mug, “I should’ve stopped him before he got anywhere near you. And I didn’t.”

Her words were met with silence; she knew he was studying her, reading her, knew that if anyone could really _see,_ it was him.

“It wasn’t your fault, Emma,” he said finally, his voice low but firm.

“If I had just been around, been more open with him, maybe—“

“Don’t do this, lass, you’ll drive yourself mad,” he pleaded, stepping closer to her, “Graham was a grown man in complete control of his actions. He made a choice and suffered the consequence for it, just as we all do. This time, in this instance, the price was sadly just too high. What happened to him was _not_ your fault.”

Emma stepped back and shot him a glare. “What if it _wasn’t_ his choice, Killian? What if it was someone else’s?”

“What are you saying? That you think he was murdered?” he asked, taken aback.

Emma nodded stuffed her free hand into the pocket of her slacks. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Emma, I know he was your friend and that you want to believe the best in him, but—“

“You’re right,” she interrupted, anger flashing through her, “He _was_ my friend. That means I know him better than you do and I am _telling_ you that there is no way in hell he was doing drugs.”

Killian sighed and balanced his mug on the railing. “Alright. So how do you intend to find out the truth, then?”

“I convinced David to give me the autopsy report. I’ll find the answers I need there,” she explained, anger rushing out of her as quickly as it had rushed in.

Killian nodded, swirling the liquid in his mug around. “Well, if you need another set of eyes, you know where to find me.”

She nodded curtly and drained the rest of her mug. “I should get going,” she said after a moment of silence. Holding his gaze, she whispered, “Thanks, Killian.”

“Any time, love,” he responded, his eyes burning into her back as she turned and made her way back inside.

* * *

 

Emma placed her elbows on her desktop and leaned forward, green eyes flicking back and forth over the page as she read the medical examiner’s detailed description of her partner’s postmortem appearance. There was a churning in her belly that worsened as she read, her brain conjuring images based on the words that Emma did not wish to see. Swallowing thickly, she forced her eyes farther down the page, scanning every paragraph for the information she was searching for.

_Cause of Death: heart failure due to mixed drug intoxication [*]_

She furrowed her brow at the symbol and skimmed to the bottom of the page.

_[*] see toxicology report for further info._

Sighing, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. It was after seven in the evening and most, if not all, of the detectives had left for the day. She rubbed her temples in an attempt to stave off the migraine threatening to overtake her and took in the empty room around her. She halted as her gaze fell on the closed door to David’s office; the one that most likely housed that toxicology report she now needed to see.

Rising from her chair, she bit her lip and chanced a casual glance around her before making her way to the door. She slipped through and closed it quietly behind her, deciding to leave the lights off in case anyone happened to walk by. After a moment of allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness around her, Emma made her way to the filing cabinet, sighing in relief when she found it too was unlocked (someone should really talk to David about making such sensitive documents so readily available). She eased the drawer open, cringing every time it squeaked, and riffled through it until she found the folder she was looking for.

Emma exited the office a few minutes later and coolly returned to her desk, file in hand. The report was short, only a single sheet of paper, and merely listed the different substances Graham had been tested for, what method was used, and the outcome of each test. She scanned the list and found most were negative, save for two.

_Cocaine/metabolites: POSITIVE_

Her initial reaction was anger; it was hot, burning in her chest like an out of control bonfire.

It was quickly extinguished when she her eyes fell on the next item on the list.

_Other/unidentifiable: POSITIVE_

“’Other?’ What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” she muttered, her brow furrowed in confusion.

There were numbers and units of measure listed beside each positive item but it might as well have been in another language because Emma had little knowledge on how to decipher them. What she _did_ know was that if this ‘Other’ was positive, there was a possibility that whatever it was could’ve been the _actual_ cause of death.

Emma rose from her desk once more, quickly gathered her things (purposefully ignoring the box with her partner’s belongings), and stalked out the side door of the precinct; Killian had offered her another set of eyes and she was damn well going to take him up on it.

* * *

 

_This can probably wait until morning_ , she thought as she climbed the steps to the apartment building before her and pressing the buzzer for Killian’s apartment before she could talk herself out of it.

_“Hello?”_ came his confused lilt a moment or two later, clearly not expecting any visitors.

“Hey, it’s me. Can you buzz me up?” she asked, releasing the intercom button and pulling her coat tighter around her against the wind.

There was a pause before the speaker crackled to life once more. _“Emma? What are you doing here?”_

Emma sighed and wet her lips. “I need your opinion on something. Can I explain inside? It’s freezing out here,” she explained, shifting on her feet in an effort to remain somewhat warm.

_“Of course, sorry. Come on up,”_ he said, the telltale click of the door being unlocked following his apology.

She sighed in relief as she shut the door behind her, effectively blocking out the biting wind.

She was knocking on his door five minutes and several flights of stairs later.

“Is everything alright?” Killian asked immediately, his brow creased in concern as he ushered her inside.

“Not sure yet,” she said cryptically, holding a folder out to him as he turned toward her, “Here.”

“And this is?” he asked, concern quickly morphing into confusion.

“It’s Graham’s autopsy report,” she said quietly, ignoring the heaviness of her heart at the words.

Understanding flooded his gaze as he pressed his lips together in a firm line and wordlessly accepted the folder. She followed as he made his way to the kitchen, paced impatiently as he carefully read the words before him, twisted her hands anxiously as silence permeated his apartment.

Nine minutes and thirty-three seconds later, he was leaning back in his chosen chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Huh,” he hummed, gazing at the pieces of paper contemplatively.

“Care to elaborate?” Emma asked, halting her march a few feet from the table.

He opened his mouth to speak and promptly closed it, choosing instead to bit his lip and inhale deeply. “It’s just a tad…peculiar,” he said finally, running a hand over his chin.

“It’s the ‘Other’ thing, right?” she asked hopefully, pulling a chair out for herself and joining him at the table.

He nodded briefly, hand still cradling his chin. “How could they rule it a drug overdose without knowing what all of the substances are? I mean, what if he was slipped something, for example, and the cocaine was only used to mask it?”

“Something like what?” she asked, trying to come up with a substance that the SBPD wouldn’t know about.

Killian shrugged and wet his lips. “I don’t know, some undocumented street drug, perhaps? Or some kind of…”

Emma flicked her gaze back to him when he trailed off, anxiety churning in her gut. “Some kind of what, Killian?”

She watched as he swallowed thickly, a mixture of comprehension and fear in his eyes. “Poison,” he answered, rising suddenly from his chair, “I’ll be right back, wait here.”

Any response she might’ve given was cut off by him quickly exiting the room. Emma’s leg bounced in nervousness as she waited, her gaze flicking back and forth between the clock hanging from the wall and the doorway to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with a folder of his own and handed it to her.

“Half way down the page,” he instructed with a clenched jaw.

“I don’t—“

“Just read it, Emma. Please.”

She nodded and opened the worn folder; in it was a report almost identical to the one they’d just been studying. Emma’s heart skipped a beat when her gaze fell upon the name at the top.

_WYGHT, MILAH_

Her eyes skimmed the report as they made their way to the place Killian had asked her to read, similar phrases jumping out at her and raising goosebumps.

When she reached the cause of death, she realized why he’d shared this piece of himself with her; the circumstances of Graham’s and Milah’s respective deaths were strikingly similar. Both of them had unidentifiable substances in their systems and both died of heart failure that had been linked to drugs, the latter something that tarnished any legacy they had hoped to leave behind.

Killian rarely discussed his time with Milah, but Emma knew enough; she knew how important she had been to him, how much he’d loved her, that he believed she’d been murdered because of something she’d done to Gold…

Emma met his gaze, her mind racing to absorb this new information. “You don’t think…”

“That Gold is reason your partner is dead? I’m afraid I do, lass,” he answered, crossing his arms over his chest, “And possibly at the hand of whoever he sent to kill Milah.”

Emma shook her head, struggling to process this new development. “Why would Gold kill Graham? I’m pretty sure they never even crossed paths.”

“We may have confirmed your suspicion regarding the manner of his death, but what makes you so sure he _wasn’t_ somehow involved with Gold’s dealings?” Killian asked, leaning against the countertop.

“You had better not be suggesting what I think you are,” she warned, her voice low.

Killian inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “Look, I’m not trying to say that Graham was a bad person, all I’m saying is that sometimes good people get caught up in bad things. Maybe whatever was between them was a one-time thing but Gold was somehow threatened by what he knew, or maybe they didn’t do dealings at all, maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, Gold doesn’t just have people killed for no reason. _Something_ happened, we just don’t know what yet.”

Emma rose from her chair and began to pace the length of the kitchen. “How can we even be sure this has anything to do with Gold? Graham was a good detective, he put _tons_ of people away; maybe one of them wanted revenge. Or maybe it was one of the dozens of _actual_ dirty cops at the SBPD trying to make their job easier. Or—“

“Or maybe it was the bloody Wicked Witch of the West,” he interjected heatedly, pushing off of the counter and stepping toward her, “We can go on like this all night, if you like. _Or_ we can just accept that Gold is most likely involved, as he is with most things in this city, and continue to work toward bringing him to justice.”

Emma paused mid-stride, throwing him a glare as agitation welled within her. “Is that all you think about? ‘Gold did this,’ ‘Gold did that’…Not everything is his fault, Killian.”

He studied her in silence for a moment, arms still crossed, his jaw clenching and unclenching, before he took another step forward and invaded her personal space. “You asked for my opinion, Emma, this is it. If you came here solely because you thought I’d agree with everything you said, you were sorely mistaken,” he said, his voice low and rough with barely repressed emotion.

Her eyes flashed in anger at the accusation, her lips contorting into the beginnings of a snarl. “Whatever I came here for, it certainly wasn’t _this_. Goodbye, Killian.”

Turning on her heel, she quickly snatched up Graham’s file, stalked to the door, and wrenched it open. Ignoring the guilt already beginning to pool in her gut, she slammed the door behind her and threw herself back out into the cold, windy night.

* * *

 

It’s two a.m. and she couldn’t sleep.

She’s tried everything she could think of, even resorting to that old standby of counting sheep, but it was no use.

Sighing, she turned to look at the clock again, the green glow of the numbers telling her a minute had passed from the last time she’d looked at it.

She just needed to get her brain to _stop_ for a second, just a _second_. Thinking perhaps some warm milk (mixed with cocoa powder, of course) might relax her, she flung the covers off and padded out of her bedroom. Emma shivered slightly and pulled her hands into the warmth of her flannel sleeves as she entered the kitchen, the tiles cool on her bare feet. She flipped on the light, squinting as it assaulted her eyes, and set about making her cocoa.

She seated herself on the couch after, warm mug in her hand as she flicked on the television and settled back into the cushions to indulge in some old sitcom. Despite her wish, her brain stubbornly continued to replay the events of the last few days, adding her row with Killian to the repertoire. Setting the now empty mug on the end table to her left, Emma sighed deeply and allowed herself to sink further into the couch, her hand cradling her chin, her legs curled beneath her.

Her eyelids were beginning to droop, the sounds from the television becoming muted. An odd noise filtered in then over the sitcom, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Her eyes sprang open when she realized it was getting louder only to be met with almost complete darkness.

Apprehension coiled in her gut; when had she turned the television off, she wondered, and why was it suddenly so cold? Still seated on the couch, she curled further into herself just as the dragging suddenly stopped. She froze, her ears perked for even the slightest sound.

There was deafening silence for what seemed like eons, her eyes straining themselves to somehow see through the darkness surrounding her. When the sound of labored breathing began only a few feet away, her own backed up in her lungs.

Just as she considered making a run for it (to where, exactly, she wasn’t sure), the television flickered to life again, bathing her in its simulated light. Had it been this bright when she’d been watching it earlier? Perhaps she’d just been in the dark for too long.

She jolted as the dragging sound began once more, the blinding light somehow causing her to momentarily forget about the _thing_ breathing heavily somewhere in her vicinity. Her eyes widened in horror when they fell upon its source, a scream burning in her lungs and lodging itself in her throat.

“Graham,” she whispered hoarsely, heart thudding in her chest.

There her dearly departed partner stood, his skin sallow and bruised, his eyes staring blankly at some point behind her. Heavy-looking chains were attached to his wrists and ankles, dragging familiarly across the carpet as he took another step toward her. He stopped less than a foot from her couch, abruptly meeting her gaze.

“Help me,” he croaked, voice laced with an urgency his appearance belied.

Her response died on lips when the television flickered, the brief lack of light transforming him from someone she recognized into a bloody, mutilated version of himself; cuts ranging from deep to shallow, long to short covered most of his exposed skin; his face was slightly swollen and sported several oozing gashes, as though he’d just received the worst beating of his life.

“This is your fault,” he whispered harshly, his lifeless eyes suddenly burning was anger and betrayal as he advanced on her.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” she cried, tears burning in her eyes as his hands closed around her throat.

Emma gasped awake, untangling herself from her bedsheets as she struggled to calm her breathing. She sat up and hung her legs over the side of the bed, cradling her head in her hands after wiping the sweat from her brow (and the tears from her cheeks). Standing on shaky legs and made her way to the bathroom. She kept the lights off when she entered and turned on the tap, splashing cold water on her face and neck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the stillness of the room, biting back the sob that threatened to wrench itself from her throat.

* * *

 

_Should’ve called in sick today_ , she thought, pouring her third cup of coffee.

It was midday and she had yet to do anything productive. For the most part, she’d spent her time avoiding her work, her desk (because that box of Graham’s things is still there and she just _can’t_ right now), her brother, and most of all, Killian Jones.

On some level, she knew he was probably right, that Gold most likely _was_ involved somehow. A part of her felt guilty for the way she’d snapped at him, especially after he’d shown her his research on Milah’s death (something he’d rarely talked about in the three years she’d known him), but her gut told her something _more_ was going on, something she knew she needed to figure out.

The wind whipped gently through her hair, which she’d been too exhausted to do anything other than brush that morning, the sun warming her face. Emma closed her eyes and turned her face toward it, allowing herself, for one small moment, to pretend that everything was fine, that everything was the same as it always had been.

_But when had things ever been fine?_ She thought abruptly, her eyes slowly working themselves open.

It was true, when _had_ they been? Certainly not when her mother had been brutally stabbed and left for dead, not when she’d joined the force to try and keep it from happening to someone else, not when she’d failed to take Gold down due to the law enforcement system he’d single-handedly corrupted. Not when Milah had been poisoned for trying to make him pay (literally), nor when Greg Mendell had been stabbed in his own home just because he’d dared to dream of a better life.

Things in Storybrooke hadn’t been fine for a long time, and they wouldn’t be again until Gold was taken out of the equation. Emma sighed wearily at the thought, knowing stopping him would take most, if not all, of the fight left within her. But she’d do it; for her mother, for Milah, for Greg Mendell, _for_ _Graham_ …

For _all_ of Storybrooke.

“Thought I might find you up here.”

Starting at the unexpected interruption, she turned toward the familiar voice of her best friend. “Hey.”

Mary Margaret smiled sweetly and pulled her coat tighter around her as she made her way to stand beside her. “It’s freezing up here, Emma, I don’t know how you stand it.”

“I don’t know, it’s…freeing,” she shrugged, taking a sip from her mug and looking out over the city. For the first time in a long time she felt something akin to _peace_.

Making a mental note to escape to the roof of the precinct more often, she turned back toward the brunette. “Did Killian send you up here?” she asked, biting her lip somewhat sheepishly.

“Not at all,” Mary Margaret claimed, shaking her head and shoving her hands into her coat pockets, “I just wanted to see how you were. You know, with everything that’s been…going on.”

Emma nodded and swirled her now lukewarm coffee around in its mug. “I’m as good as can be expected, I guess.”

“You know I’m here for you, right? If you wanted to talk about Graham or… _anything_?” she entreated, placing a hand on her arm.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks,” Emma mumbled, swallowing thickly, “So, on a scale of one to ten, just how annoying has my brother been about the vigilante thing?”

Mary Margaret huffed a laugh and smoothed a hand over her short hair. “He was insufferable initially, gave me the cold shoulder for a week, until he started muttering under his breath and blowing every little thing out of proportion. One heated argument and a few serious conversations later and I think he’s actually starting to be somewhat okay with it. He definitely still doesn’t approve, which is why I’ve been abstaining, but I think he at least understands how important this is to us.”

Emma chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry I put you in this position, Mary Margaret. This isn’t your fight and I never should’ve dragged you into it.”

“Emma, anything I’ve done has been by my own choice. You’ve never forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do,” she said earnestly, trying to catch Emma’s eyes. “As for this not being my fight, you couldn’t be more wrong. Storybrooke is just as much my home as it is yours; _someone_ has to protect it. And I’m more than happy to help you do just that.”

Not for the first time, Emma realized how lucky she was to have Mary Margaret in her life. Finally meeting her gaze, she smiled and nodded, not trusting her voice. The other woman smiled back and pulled her into a tight hug.

“About Killian,” she began as she pulled away from Emma, “I don’t know the specifics, but whatever they are, you two should really talk about it.”

Emma shrugged and moved to go back downstairs. “Talking about it is what started this whole thing.”

Mary Margaret followed, sighing in relief when the warmth of the building enveloped her, “Maybe, but I’m willing to bet one, if not both, of you let your emotions get the better of you. Seriously, Emma, _talk_ to him. It worked for me and David.”

Emma shot her a look as she descended the stairs, “You and David are a couple, Mary Margaret. Killian and I are... _not_.”

An unreadable expression flitted across her face at Emma’s words. “Still, talking it out always helps.”

She shrugged evasively and turned her attention to the stairs beneath her feet.

“You’re not speaking, Emma, it certainly can’t _hurt_ the situation,” Mary Margaret countered, sighing in mild exasperation.

She was right, of course, how much worse could it get? Besides, avoiding him had turned out to be far more work than she had the energy for at the moment anyway (and maybe she also kind of missed him. _Maybe_ ). She’ll talk to him, just not today. Today she was just too _tired_.

“See you later, and _please_ think about what I said,” Mary Margaret implored, squeezing her hand lightly.

“Sure,” Emma said, waving at the other woman, “I’ll see you.”

She returned to her desk, still dutifully ignoring the box sitting on the corner. There were a few case files sitting in the center; some new, some ongoing, some that she’d been waiting for lab results on. Placing her elbows on her desk, she cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes for a moment, the sounds of the hustle and bustle around her filtering in and out.

“Emma.”

Her tired green eyes shoot open and lift to meet his worried blue ones, protest dying on her lips.

“Go home,” David ordered softly, looking for all the world like he’d love nothing more than to cradle her in his arms and shield her from all the terrible things in this world.

“You sure, Cap?” she asked halfheartedly, rising to her feet once more.

He nodded, his lips twitching at the nickname. “You’re no good to me like this. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Emma nodded, throwing him a look that she hoped looked grateful, and packed up her things. Less than twenty minutes later, she was unlocking her front door, depositing her things on the couch, and crashing in a heap onto her bed.

* * *

 

“Ready to go, Nolan?” Detective Locksley asked, patrol car keys in hand.

“’Course,” she nodded, slowly rising from her chair.

Anxiety licked at her insides; she’d been shadowing Robin for the last few days at her brother’s insistence (“You _need_ to get back out in the field, Emma. Especially if you want to pass your exam in March.”), but this was her first crime scene since Graham.

A feeling of wrongness settled over her when they arrived at their destination. It worsened as they approached the telltale yellow tape; _none_ of this was right. Locksley was a nice guy and an even better detective, and while she was sure he’d be a great partner for someone _somewhere_ , he just wasn’t the right one for _her_. They got along, sure, and she trusted him enough to at least work with him, but there was something missing, something she’d only ever felt when she was in the field with Graham.

She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, reminded herself that this victim was someone who could no longer speak for themselves, that _they_ needed her help now. With a pang of sadness, she realized that Graham was the one who used to remind them both of this; whenever things had gotten rough or they’d hit a dead end, he’d remind her who they were fighting for, he’d help her regain perspective.

Perspective was something she needed now more than ever.

* * *

 

She’d been staring at it for the last hour.

Thebox with his things.

It’d been sitting there for a week, quickly becoming a familiar fixture on the corner of her desk. Emma knew she was avoiding it, the thought that looking at its contents would somehow make Graham’s death more _real_ having crossed her mind (which was ridiculous as she’d attended his funeral, had watched as they’d lowered his casket into the ground and covered it with earth). The idea that his entire career, that his _life_ could fit into one medium-sized box just didn’t make sense, didn’t seem fair.

She sighed and finally ended her staring contest with the object, scrubbing a hand tiredly over her face. Rising from her chair, she slid her bag over her shoulder and moved to stand at the edge of her desk, fingering the corner of the box. Before she could change her mind, she hauled it into her arms and made her way out to her car. 

Pushing through her front door an hour and ten blocks of rush hour traffic later, she gingerly deposited the box on her coffee table and sank down onto the couch before it. Her hands shook as she reached for the item on top, his signature leather jacket. Tears pooled in her eyes when her fingers connected with the smooth fabric, spilled silently down her cheeks when she lifted the object from the box and clutched it to her chest.

_It still smells like him_ , she thought, burying her nose and greedily inhaling the familiar scent.

His work boots were next; solid and heavy, _durable_ he’d called them, yet still pliable, _giving;_ just as Graham had been. She fingered the suede laces and bit her lip as more tears slipped down her cheeks.

There were a few other little things; his police academy t-shirt, a half-empty bottle of aftershave, a small potted plant, the silly little ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish’ pin he’d worn every St. Patrick’s Day she’d known him, a notebook full of scribblings she couldn’t bring herself to read just yet, and a framed picture of Graham and a man Emma had never met.

Upon closer inspection, she noticed how similar they looked; same gentle blue eyes, same dark, wavy hair, same crooked smile…

Unease churned in her gut; this man in the photograph was _clearly_ related to him, looked like he could be his brother even, and never, not _once_ , had Graham mentioned him…or _any_ other family members, for that matter. Maybe David and Killian were right, maybe she _hadn’t_ known her partner as well as she’d thought. If he’d hidden something like this from her, what else hadn’t he told her? She shuddered at the thought and quickly pushed it away. She gently returned each object to the box, wiped any leftover tears from her cheeks, and rose from her place on the couch.

* * *

 

She began a secret investigation on Graham after that, each new piece of information adding insult to injury.

Mary Margaret was worried about her, she could tell. That meant David was too.

She wasn’t sure about Killian, hadn’t spoken to him since she started looking into this. Every now and then she’d come across something and find herself wondering what he’d make of it, wondering what angle he’d see that she hadn’t.

She’s woman enough to admit she missed him in the quietness of her own mind, but had yet to find the courage to tell him this herself.

She’ll get there. Eventually.

Anyway, it’s a two-way street; he knew where to find her if he was looking to reconcile.

The fact that he hadn’t even tried made her already broken heart tear just a little bit more at the seams.

By the end of the week, she knew more about Graham’s past than she had about his present. She’d been right, the man in the photo was his brother. _Younger_ brother, to be exact. Grady Humbert had been reported missing a few cities over in July of 2008; a few months, Emma discovered, before Graham had moved to Storybrooke.

The notebook he’d kept in his desk had turned out to be notes on his own findings; theories of what had happened to Grady, half-finished timelines of the days before he’d disappeared, connections he had made both in and outside of law enforcement that he was using to gather information. Everyone had a code name though, of course, Graham wasn’t stupid after all.

She noticed that he mentioned someone he referred to as “The Queen” quite often; whoever she was, it seemed like she was his primary source of intel. Emma wondered whether or not this “Queen” had been helping Graham willingly; if she hadn’t, it was possible she could’ve found out he was using her and had him killed because of it.

_That could be said about any of the people in this notebook, though_ , she reminded herself, sitting back heavily in her desk chair.

It was true, any one of these people, powerful or not, could’ve discovered Graham was using them for information; it all depended on who had the most to lose. Her gut told her “The Queen” was her best bet; her code name alone suggested that she was someone in a powerful position, as did the amount and quality of the information Graham had gleaned from her.

Emma considered her options; while there were plenty of powerful women in Storybrooke, very few of them would have access to the information “The Queen” seemed to. Her first thought was Gold’s wife Belle (her husband _was_ the most powerful man in the city, after all). But then she remembered the gala she’d attended at his house, how he’d credited her with leading him from his “darkness.” It was clear to her that Gold wished for his wife to believe he’d reformed, meaning she probably wouldn’t approve of his business practices; it was unlikely that she had anything to do with this.

She briefly considered the con artist who called herself “Ella” (and was called “The Devil” by every one of her marks), but dismissed her quickly; her targets tended to be the older and exceedingly wealthy and Graham had been neither of those things. Besides, this “Queen” probably had lackeys to do her bidding and Ella was said to be a lone wolf.

The way Emma saw it, her two most likely options were: Effie Drake, known arms dealer or Cora Mills, the owner of Mills and Co. Both of these women had connections Graham could’ve taken advantage of; who _knows_ what kinds of things he might’ve found out. Maybe he hadn’t been killed for using the connections of others, maybe he’d been killed for stumbling across information no one was ever meant to see…

Her two prime suspects named, she decided to put her personal investigation aside for a while and focus on what she was actually _supposed_ to be doing at the moment: police work.

* * *

 

The computer forensics department was a flurry of activity when she stepped through the door. She swallowed the lump in her throat as her eyes immediately searched for that familiar mess of dark hair and those blue eyes that always seemed to see right through her.

“Afternoon, Detective,” Elsa greeted, her voice quiet yet firm, a knowing smile on her lips.

“Elsa, hey,” Emma started, abruptly turning her head in the other blonde’s direction, “I, uh, was just dropping by to check on the status of those reports for the Abner case.”

Elsa nodded clasped her hands in front of her. “ _Right_ , of course you were,” she said, her tone suggesting she suspected otherwise. “Well, as you can see we’re a bit backed up at the moment so all of the time tables have been pushed back. We can probably get them to you by Monday though if that’s alright?”

Emma nodded and waved a hand. “Of course, I understand,” she said with a forced smile, her eyes quickly scanning the room again. “I guess I’ll check back Monday then.”

“He’s not here,” she offered suddenly, pushing her long braid over her shoulder.

“Who?” Emma asked with faux innocence, crossing her arms over her chest.

Elsa raised her eyebrows at her question, that same knowing smile on her lips. “ _Please_. You’ve been coming in here every day for the last three years and the one week I _don’t_ see you just happens to be the week Jones decides to start wandering around looking like his entire world just fell apart.”

At a loss, she averted her gaze to the floor and shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “Is he…okay?” she asked softly, a mixture of guilt and worry bubbling in her gut.

“He looks like he’s been having trouble sleeping,” Elsa said, a frown pulling at her lips, “I tried to get him to talk, but he wasn’t having it. I sent him home about an hour ago to get some rest.”

Emma sighed heavily. “Maybe I’ll try and call him later. Just to make sure he’s alright.”

“I think he’d like that,” she replied, her small smile reforming on her lips. “I should get back to all this. Have a good day, Emma.”

“You too,” Emma muttered, her mind far away as she turned and exited the room.

* * *

 

She pulled her bug into an open space in front of the five-story apartment building and killed the engine, her eyes drifting to the box sitting on her passenger seat. The pang that resounded in her chest at the sight of Graham’s things had become something of a familiar companion these last few days.

Emma took a steadying breath and exited the car, before quickly making her way around to retrieve the box. Graham’s building was old, somewhere in the neighborhood of ‘historic,’ truth be told; a variation of beige and dark brown bricks formed the outside walls. She’d only been here once, and even then it had only been to pick her partner up, but she’d always thought the place looked homey despite the slightly decrepit state of the exterior.

She ascended the stairs and fought the urge to look over her shoulder; ever since she’d started looking into Graham’s extracurricular activities, she’d been careful not to draw too much attention to herself (especially since said activities were probably the reason her partner was dead). Coming to his apartment was a risky move; what if someone was watching it? What if they saw her and assumed she was his accomplice? What if they looked into her life and started targeting the people she loved in order to get her to tell them everything Graham had on them?

It was possible she was being paranoid but, as the saying goes, better to be safe than sorry.

It’s the reason she’d decided to bring the box of his things along. Initially, she’d been planning on keeping them; once the month was up, Graham’s landlord would most likely sell or donate his things and rent the place out to someone else. But when she hit a dead end looking into Graham’s case, she realized that he likely had most of his intel stashed somewhere inside his place. Perhaps it was a long shot, but she thought that maybe if someone _was_ watching, the box of his things might throw them off.

Turning the knob on the door to the lobby, Emma sighed in relief when it opened without issue. Ignoring the elevator, she climbed the four flights of stairs that lead to her dearly departed friend’s third floor apartment. Shifting the box to her hip, she used her now free hand to open the door to the blessedly empty hall. The soft clunk of her boots on the faux hardwood bounced off the walls as she made her way toward the door marked 308 and placed the box down in front of it.

A few casual glances over her shoulder told her no one was watching as she rose to her tip toes and brushed her fingers across the top of the doorway. Her fingers closed around the dusty spare key a moment later as she lowered herself back down to her usual height. Checking once more that no one was watching, she inserted the key into lock and turned it.

Emma bent to retrieve the box and pushed the door open, kicking it closed with her foot upon entering. There was a smallish table next to the door that she deposited the box on. Pulling her police issued Glock from beneath her jacket, she did a quick sweep of the two-bedroom, the tension easing from her shoulders upon completion.

She stowed her piece back beneath her jacket as she made her way to the master bedroom, her eyes scanning the room for a likely hiding place. She started by looking in his dresser, beneath his bed, and behind any pictures hanging on the walls. Finding nothing, she moved on to the master bathroom and checked the linen closet, beneath the sink, and, much to her chagrin, in the toilet tank.

Emma sighed, her search of his bedroom giving her nothing more than a personal glimpse into her former partner’s life. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she made her way to the second bedroom next. Opening the door revealed an office similar to the one she and Killian had searched at Gold’s estate; it was smaller, of course, and there were only two bookshelves, but the desk in the center was clearly one of the most expensive things in the entire apartment and Emma wondered briefly how Graham could’ve afforded such a thing on a cop’s salary. There was a worn, leather chair behind the desk and a series of filing cabinets lining the wall to her left.

She quickly made her way to the desk, praying it didn’t have a lock on every drawer as the last one she’d encountered had. After pushing away the chair, though, she realized it didn’t matter; there, beneath the desk, was a safe.

_Bingo_ , she thought, crouching down to examine it. It was roughly a foot and a half tall with an electronic keypad as its only means of entry. Emma mentally cursed; her forte was picking key locks and, occasionally one that required a combination. The latter was usually the manual type, though, and she’d rarely had success cracking what Graham had. She briefly considered her options: she could try a few combinations and see if any of them worked before locking her out, she could open the keypad and attempt to somehow hotwire the thing into thinking she’d entered the correct combination, or she could bust out Graham’s tools and drill her way in.

Figuring the first option was the least messy (and the least time consuming), Emma sat cross-legged before the contraption and wracked her brain. When asked for numbered combinations, most people tended to use dates that meant something to them; a birthdate, a wedding anniversary, the day they graduated from high school or college…

As a detective, though, Graham’s thought process would’ve (should’ve) been different; surely he knew what ‘most people’ would do. As a rule, detectives had to think outside of the box, had to think like ‘most people’ wouldn’t. So if he hadn’t used a significate date, perhaps he had used something else. Perhaps something that referenced a location special to him? The zip code of the city he and his brother had lived in before he disappeared, perhaps?

After days of combing Graham’s files, she knew almost every scrap of information in it and recalled the five digit number quickly. The telltale beeping that indicated an incorrect code told her that her guess was a wrong one. Sighing, she thought about what she knew and tried to think like he would. She reasoned that it was possible that he _had_ decided to use a date significant to him, that he hadn’t been in ‘detective mode’ when deciding on his combination. Emma considered the date he was most likely to use; not his brother’s birthday (that was too easy), certainly not his _own_ birthday (because even ‘most people’ weren’t _that_ idiotic)…maybe the day his brother went missing? That was what all of this had been about for him, after all. Knowing her guesses were limited, she paused a moment and considered the most logical format before keying it in.

_Incorrect_.

At most, she had two more guesses left before she was locked out for what was most likely several hours. Knowing she couldn’t risk coming back a second time, she carefully considered her next (and possibly final) guess.

She wondered what _she_ would use were she in this position; what where the things that meant something to her? Her family and friends were probably the highest on the list, but what could she apply from them? Dates were obviously out and everyone she knew was in the same city so no locations…what about a name?

Emma pulled out her cellphone and looked at the keypad, mentally creating a list of people that she knew meant something to Graham. He and his brother had been orphaned at a relatively young age so she didn’t need to consider a parent’s name. As far as she knew, they hadn’t had any pets growing up so that was out as well. She could think of at least three people she knew for a fact he’d been close two, one of which was her, but she doubted he’d use the name of a friend he hadn’t even trusted enough to share his quest with.

That left one logical choice and, honestly, she felt kind of stupid for not thinking of him first: _his brother Grady_.

Emma typed in the name on her cellphone using the keypad.

“4-7-2-3-9,” she whispered to herself, her voice cutting through the silence in the room like a hot knife through butter.

Slowly she input the number, hesitating over the ‘Enter’ button for a moment. The double beep and satisfying click of the safe unlocking sent a rush of delight through her. Pulling open the door, she began sifting through the array of items she was presented with: Graham’s passport, a 9mm and some extra ammo, an envelope with a wad of cash, and a couple of thick folders.

Bypassing the other items, Emma pulled the folders from the safe and rose from the floor. She placed the first one on the desktop and quickly flipped through it; the first few papers were handwritten notes that Emma ignored in favor of the photographs of a woman beneath them. The woman looked familiar, but for some reason Emma was having trouble placing her; she was medium height as far as she could tell, well-dressed and most likely on the wealthier side of things, dark hair that fell just below her shoulders, brown eyes, and had a stern look about her.

She flipped through the photos looking for something, _anything_ that indicated who she was. She stopped on a photo of the woman walking along side another, older woman that Emma most definitely recognized: Cora Mills. This revelation lead her to the realization that the younger woman was her daughter Regina, the current president and CEO of Mills and Co. Rumor had it that she was pretty tight with Gold, too, which was probably the reason he trusted her facility to guard whatever it was he was keeping there.

So that was it, then; Graham had somehow gotten into Regina Mills’ inner circle and had used her connections to try and find information on his brother’s disappearance. When she’d found out, she had sicked one of the assassin’s Gold kept on retainer on him and eliminated a threat to both of them.

Anger bubbled in her gut; anger at Regina, anger at Gold, anger at the faceless person sent to kill Graham, but mostly, anger at Graham himself. He’d known better than most her feelings on Gold, knew about her mother and how she’d connected him to her death. How could he not have trusted her with this? Why hadn’t he asked for her help? Why had he _lied_ to her all these years? If he’d just _told_ her what he’d been doing, if he’d just let her _help…_

Her hands clenched into fists, the urge to throw them down on the desktop, on all of Graham’s _work_ overwhelmed her. Instead, she settled for pushing it, as well as several other things, off onto the floor in a fit of rage. She bit back the frustrated scream that threatened to rip from her throat as she stormed out of the room and back toward the front door.

_Graham was an idiot for doing this alone,_ she thought, her nails digging into her palms, _No wonder he’s dead_.

The thought stopped her in her tracks; wasn’t that exactly what _she_ was doing right now? Investigating Graham’s death on her own, and why? Killian had been more than happy to help her, and what had she done instead? Lashed out, pushed him away. Hell, she’d pushed Mary Margaret away too by not bothering to tell her about all of this. She wasn’t any better than Graham, she was the same, if not _worse_ , and if she kept this up, she might end up in the exact same place he did.

Emma pulled a hand through her hair, the anger leeching out of her, replacing itself with despair. This was all too much, she couldn’t handle this, not alone. She needed her team, her support, her partners; _her family_.

Fighting back a strong urge to cry, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and scrolled through her contacts. She tried Mary Margaret first, and got her voicemail. She left her a message asking her to call, said she’d made the mistake of going to Graham’s apartment alone, said she was sorry if she’s been distant these last few days, that she could really use a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen if she was willing. She tried David next, knew that if anyone would understand the loss she was feeling it was him. When _he_ didn’t answer, she let the tears fall, frustration and fear and _everything_ crashing over her like a tidal wave. She felt the panic begin to rise in her throat, felt a pressure in her chest that made it hard to breath.

Turning around, she made her way to the kitchen, turned on the water, and splashed cold water on her face. Her fingers were white as she clutched the counter, trying to focus on steadying her breathing and _not_ the overwhelming panic currently rushing through her. As she calmed a bit, she let her eyes roam the space, looking for anything that could divert her attention, if only for a moment.

Her gaze fell on a bottle of whiskey on top of the fridge and Emma decided that that was _exactly_ what she needed.

Thirty minutes and half a bottle of whiskey later, Emma was _much_ calmer (and decidedly much _drunker)_ than she had been. She’d moved from the kitchen to his couch about twenty minutes ago in favor of cushier seating and heckling the television.

She sunk back into the cushions as she took another swig of whiskey, the liquid burning down her throat and pooling in her belly, spreading warmth through her entire body. She hummed at the feeling, positioning the bottle in between her crisscrossed legs and cradling her chin in her hand. Her eyes began to droop, her vision blurring even more as she slowly slipped into what was hopefully a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

The sound of borderline frantic knocking startled her awake about an hour later. Emma groaned and rolled her neck, the angle at which she’d been resting her head causing an uncomfortable crick to form. Stifling a particularly massive yawn, she scratched her scalp through her tangled mane and moaned at the pain in her head as she shuffled slowly toward the door.

Forgoing the peephole, she wrenched the door open and opened her mouth to lob a disgruntled “ _What?_ ” at the jackass currently disturbing her peace, only to snap it shut when she realized who it was.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he explained, his blue eyes brimming with a mixture of unease and mild relief. “And when you weren’t answering the door and I thought…”

Emma crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “What are you doing here?” she mumbled blearily, wincing when her head throbbed a little more harshly.

Killian ran his uninjured hand through his hair for what looked like the hundredth time. “Mary Margaret said you sounded very distraught on the message you left her and asked me to check on you as she and David are out of town for the weekend.”

“Oh,” she said, biting her lip. She’d forgotten about their weekend getaway, she’d have to call them tomorrow and apologize for worrying them.

“Well, you appear to be in one piece, I suppose I’ll leave you to it then,” he said, tension radiating off of him as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, “G’night, Swan.”

Fighting the urge to grab him and keep him where he was, she took a step through the doorway as he turned to leave. “Killian, wait.”

Her heart raced beneath her breast when he halted, still facing away from her. “I—I’m sorry,” she croaked, biting her lip and averting her gaze to the floor.

Silence hung between them like a heavy curtain as she awaited his response, her gut twisting with every passing minute. Finally, he turned, a pained look on his face as he swallowed thickly.

“I’m sorry, too,” he responded hoarsely, the guilt swirling in his eyes causing her chest to ache. “I was…overly emotional and I deeply regret the manner in which I spoke to you.”

“The emotions were running high on both sides that night, Killian,” she assured him, waving him off, “Besides, you were right.”

“Right about what?” he asked, browed furrowed in confusion.

“Gold,” she replied, swallowing back the wave of nausea she suddenly felt.

His face fell as he averted his gaze to the floor. “I wish I hadn’t I been.”

Emma nodded (and then promptly winced). “I know.”

Killian studied her for a moment and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice wavering just slightly, “I, uh, came across a few things in Graham’s desk and figured the rest of it would be here. Unfortunately I was right.”

He nodded and bit his lip, his eyes flitting all over her face. “Want me to drive you home?”

“No. Not yet. I—I’m not ready to let—,” she paused and fingered the suede band on her wrist, biting back the words threatening to slip off of her tongue, words she wasn’t ready to say. “Why don’t you come inside,” she continued instead, throwing him a slightly watery smile.

“As you wish,” he said, returning her smile with a look in his eyes that said he knew, that he understood, that she didn’t have to explain.

They sat in silence on the couch for a long time, some movie she couldn’t remember the name of playing in the background. Half way through, he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a large glass of water and some crackers. He said nothing as he placed them on the end table next to her and then reclaimed his seat beside her. By the time it was over, she’d eaten half a sleeve of crackers and inhaled three glasses of water.

He followed her into the kitchen as she put the crackers back into the cabinet and placed her glass in the sink. And just like that, Graham’s death was suddenly that much more real. It didn’t matter what she did with his things, whether or not she cleaned up her dishes, if she drank half of his whiskey; Graham was _gone_ and he wasn’t coming back.

She slapped a hand over her mouth as a whimper escaped her, as her eyes blurred with more tears. God, it’d only been a week and she was already so tired of crying, of being _sad_. As a rule, Emma was not an emotional person, especially in front of others. But when she felt Killian embrace her, heard him mutter soothing words into her hair as she balled his t-shirt in her fist and rested her forehead against his neck, she let herself give in. He stroked her back as she cried, felt her knees weaken as every feeling she’d been holding back came spilling out. She didn’t know how long it lasted, just that they’d ended up huddled together on the kitchen floor at some point; Killian slowly rocking her back and forth, tears drying on her face as she struggled to calm her breathing.

“Sorry about your shirt,” she muttered thickly, scrubbing her face with her hand.

She smiled at his surprised huffed laugh. “You can ruin my shirts anytime you like, love.”

They made to leave not too long after, Emma telling everything she’d discovered since they’d last spoken. She made sure to take the files from his office and close his safe (you know, just in case). As they made their way to the door, Emma spied the box with his things in it and stopped in front of it. There were no more tears to cry, not tonight anyway, but the ache that settled over her heart was still there. Picking up his leather jacket, she stroked the buttery soft material, briefly considering keeping it, until her eyes fell on the coat rack by the door.

Killian’s eyes followed her as she walked over, gingerly hung the garment on the hook, and, with one last lingering look, nodded and turned away.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice hoarse.

He nodded, pulled the door open, and gestured for her to lead the way.

* * *

 

Walking through the main doors the following Monday, Emma found that she felt lighter than she had in a while. Delving into Graham’s affairs had given her more of an understanding of her partner, one that, in turn, had given her a sense of closure she hadn’t really realized she’d needed. She fingered the band on her wrist again and allowed herself a small smile; he was a part of this now, a part of _her_. Her drive to take down Gold was at its peak and soon, _very_ soon, they’d have everything they’d need to achieve that goal.

She allowed her smile to widen when she met the eyes of her friend and partner at her usual spot at the front desk.

“Hey, how’d the trip go?” she asked, leaning her hip against the side of the desk.

Mary Margaret smiled and gestured for her to sit. “It was great, _very_ relaxing. I take it everything ended up being okay here?” she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Emma nodded and averted her gaze sheepishly. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Thanks.”

The other woman smiled warmly and clasped Emma’s hand in hers. “That’s _great_ ,” she grinned, peering over Emma’s shoulder, “Speak of the devil.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she turned to look behind her. An odd feeling churned in her gut when her eyes fell on Killian; he had a folder in his hands and was quickly making his way over to them.

“Good morning, Killian,” Mary Margaret chirped as he neared, smiling amiably.

“Morning, Ladies,” he answered, his smile strained as he bent slightly over Mary Margaret’s desk, “We have a problem,” he whispered, eyes flicking between the two of them.

“What kind of a problem?” Emma asked, sitting up straighter in her chair.

“Tamara,” he said simply, biting his lip and shaking his head, “She’s off the grid, disappeared completely.”

“What? But I thought we made a deal with her?” Mary Margaret asked, confusion marring her delicate features.

“You don’t think Gold got to her, do you?” Emma asked, a sinking feeling settling in her gut.

Killian sighed, an uneasy look on his face. “I wish I knew.”

A combination of anger and anxiety rushed through her; on the one hand, she was upset that their _only_ witness seemed to have made a run for it, but on the other, she was worried that she actually _hadn’t_ had the chance to run at all.

“Is there any way we can try and find out where she went? Some kind of trail maybe?” Emma asked, jiggling her leg nervously.

“I’ve done all I can, I’m afraid,” Killian said, shaking his head, “ _If_ there’s a trail, it’s not one I’ve been able to pick up on.”

“Shit,” she muttered, rubbing her temple, “What do we do now?”

“We keep looking. We keep _fighting_ ,” Mary Margaret interjected, her gaze earnest, “We _don’t_ give up.”

Emma nodded and sent her a forced smile.

David called for their pre-shift meeting, halting their discussion. Emma and Killian shared a look as they moved to join the crowd in the bullpen, a look that said they both knew that regardless of how hard they fought, it didn’t change the fact that, with their only witness in the wind, they were basically back to square one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addt'l AN: A few name notes, in case anyone was wondering why I chose the ones I did (you probably aren't but Imma tell y'all anyway~).
> 
> 1\. Wyght (the last name I gave Milah) was chosen because it means "strong."
> 
> 2\. Effie Drake is Maleficent lol; Effie was my way of shortening her name and the last name Drake means "dragon."
> 
> 3\. I chose the name Grady for Graham's brother because I like alliterative names (and also because the usage is Irish).
> 
> Okay, that's all. Thanks for reading! And please feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter, if you have a moment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Firstly, I just want to apologize for the unintentional writing hiatus I seem to have taken. All I can really say is writer’s block is a bitch. That said, _because_ writer’s block is such a bitch, I’ve split what I had intended to be the final chapter into two. 
> 
> Secondly, thank you to those out there that are actually reading this and thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Thirdly, to those reviewers who are always asking why Emma turned vigilante when she’s a cop—Matt Murdock said it best so I’ll let him explain: (youtu.be/mbx9xdlAEM4?t=40s) [0:40-1:30]. 
> 
> Without further ado, here’s the second-to-last chapter of Bulletproof. Hope y’all enjoy. ❤
> 
> Many thanks to Lira for giving this a read-through

These last few years had been anything but easy. For Emma, it’d been bruises, fractured ribs and broken fingers, the occasional black eye or bloody nose, countless sleepless nights where she questioned everyone and everything in her life, where she questioned whether or not this was all worth it.

The emotional and physical toll alone almost seemed enough to call it quits sometimes.

But she’d kept going, _they’d_ kept going, despite all the odds against them. Their strong wills and even stronger bond holding them together when it felt like everything might fall apart.

They’d come too far, lost _too much_ for it to end this way.

Tamara’s disappearance had been a huge blow; getting their hands on whatever Gold was hiding at Mills was important, of course, but what good was it without a witness? His army of lawyers would most likely find some way to prove whatever was in there wasn’t his and everything they’ve been working toward will have been for nothing. No, they needed someone, _anyone_ , willing to testify against him in order for this to have even the smallest chance of working.

_There has to be a way_ , she thought, throwing a punch at the bag before her and instinctively shifting her position.

The soft smack of her fist hitting the heavy bag filled her ears once more as she threw a few more quick jabs. She had been at it for close to an hour, trying (and failing) to work out her many frustrations. Her knuckles were a bit red from constant contact with the rough canvas of the bag and her back was sore, but the burn in her muscles was proving a good at distraction from everything currently weighing on her heart.

Breathing heavily, she halted, placing a hand against the bag to prevent it from swinging into her. She unraveled her hand wraps as she made her way over to where she’d left her gym bag, flexing her fingers once they were freed.

She’d gone over every name she’d ever heard connected with Gold repeatedly in her head, yet she was no closer to solving their problem. To be fair, the list of known or rumored associates was a short one and even then, most of them were either missing or dead; the rest were either too well compensated to betray Gold or were too afraid to.

Jefferson had theorized that the key to bringing down Gold’s organization was in that box; perhaps it could also help lead them to the witness they needed? Emma sighed and shook her head. There were too many uncertainties surrounding whatever was in the box already, it was not a good idea to place all of their hopes on it. No, they needed all their ducks in a row _before_ they tried to take it, not after.

She sipped on a water bottle and gently rolled her neck and shoulders. The sound of a door opening and closing reached her ears a moment later, followed by the footfalls of someone descending the stairs. Sighing, Emma fished out the towel in her bag and wiped the sweat from her face and neck, turning her attention toward the footsteps as they neared.

“Hey,” David greeted with a soft smile, the sound of his voice echoing off the walls of the large, mostly empty room, “How’s the workout going?”

“Good,” she answered, eyebrows rising in surprise; she had not been expecting _him_. “What brings you down here so late?”

Her brother halted a few feet away from where she sat on the bench and shrugged. “I was working late and saw that your car was still in the parking lot. Figured you’d be down here.”

She nodded and dropped her eyes, taking another swig from her water bottle. “Just trying to work a few things out,” she replied vaguely.

“Anything I can help with?” he asked with faux nonchalance, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and taking a few steps closer.

Emma bit her lip and considered her brother’s offer. They hadn’t really talked about her ‘extracurricular activities’ since that night at the hospital and she was wary about opening _that_ particular can of worms again.

She must’ve been silent for too long, however, because before she could decide either way, David sighed and took a seat beside her on the bench. “Come on, Em, it’s me. _Let me in_ ,” he pleaded, his voice rough with emotion.

Upon meeting his gaze once more, the sudden urge to cry welled in her; she had only seen that look in his eyes once and it was not a memory she wished to relive. _Ever_. Swallowing thickly, she nodded and started at the very beginning.

She told him how it all started for her, about how Mary Margaret and Killian had gotten involved, told him about how rough it’d been at first and how they’d struggled to figure things out and keep it all under wraps. She told him about meeting Red and their deal with her, about Jefferson and Mills and Co., told him about convincing Tamara to help them put Gold away and about her subsequent disappearance. She told him about the gala (what she hadn’t _already_ told him, at any rate), about Neal and that night after their mom’s wake, told him about Graham…

It was late when she finally finished and she was exhausted from having to relive it all, however briefly, but somehow she felt lighter. Her brother was silent as he processed the years of information she’d dumped on him and suddenly she was worried that it was too much too soon.

“David?” she tried after a long pause, eyeing him cautiously.

His jaw was clenched, his shoulders tense. “Let me help,” he replied finally, brow furrowed.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What? I thought you said you were against this entire operation.”

“I am,” he agreed, nodding and turning to meet her eyes. “But you’re my sister and I trust you. If you really believe that this is the best way to do this, then I want to be there for you in any way that I can.”

Emma gaped at him as she considered his offer. “I don’t think you’ve really thought this through. You can’t exactly be running around the city with a group of vigilantes with a day job like yours.”

“Why not? You do it,” he challenged, shrugging at her.

“I’m not the captain of the precinct, David. _You are_ ,” she argued, rising to her feet as frustration began to burn in her chest. “You’re a good man with a good heart and this city needs you where you are.”

“I could say the same about you, you know,” he countered as he too rose to his feet.

Emma sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. “My position here offers me almost no power to affect change. Most of my superiors are paid to look the other way while people like Gold literally get away with murder and I can’t do a thing about it. But _you_ can.”

“Come on, Emma, don’t be so naïve,” David scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I may be in charge of this precinct, but I still have to answer to someone. Those people you’re talking about? They’re _my_ bosses. Any power I have is far from unlimited; I can’t just do whatever I want, even if it’s what’s right.”

“But don’t you see, the fact that you even _want_ to do what’s right is the reason this city needs you,” she implored. “You might not win every battle, but at least you still fight.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do now, but for some reason you’re trying to convince me otherwise,” he challenged, furrowing his brow.

She sighed again and raked a hand over her sweat-dampened hair. “I’m not trying to convince you otherwise, David, I just want to make sure you understand the risks. If this doesn’t go the way we need it to—“

“ _It will_ ,” he assured, stepping closer and putting his hands on her shoulders.

The certainty in his eyes took her slightly aback. “What makes you so sure?” she asked, swallowing thickly.

“Because it has to,” he whispered, a sad smile stretching across his lips.

* * *

Emma climbed the staircase as fast as she was able, the bags she’s lugging slowing her down. “Hey,” she greeted breathlessly as she pushed through the door to the clock tower. “How’s it going?”

Killian sighed and leaned back in his chair. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

After setting her bags down in an empty corner, she took a moment to catch her breath. “Any leads on Tamara?” she asked hopefully, crossing her arms over her chest.

Her partner raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “None. It’s like she just evaporated into thin air. There’s absolutely no trail whatsoever. At least not one I’ve been able to find.”

Nodding, she quickly took stock of the room. Mary Margaret had yet to arrive, it seemed. She had wanted to wait and tell both of them about David simultaneously, but she suspected her brother had already beaten her to the punch with regard to his fiancé.

“There’s something you should know,” she blurted suddenly, cringing at her lack of finesse.

Killian turned to look at her, his brow furrowed in concern, eyes wary. “What is it? Are you alright?”

She nodded, wetting her lips nervously. “I’m fine. I, uh…it’s is actually about the op.”

“What about it?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing.

“David wants in,” she responded, shoving her hands in her pockets.

He blinked at her in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“ _David_. You know, my brother? He wants in.”

Killian sighed wearily and rose from his chair. “Since when? I thought he was vehemently _against_ this whole thing.”

“He is. I think he’s just tired of being out of the loop, to be honest,” she shrugged, chewing on her bottom lip.

He gazed at her quietly for a moment, his tired eyes searching her face. “And what do you think about all of this?”

Emma sighed and briefly squeezed her eyes closed. “I think I’m ready for this to be over. If David really wants to help, I say we let him. It’s not like we couldn’t use the extra pair of hands.”

Killian nodded slowly and then shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a fresh set of eyes, I suppose.”

“Mary Margaret’s gonna be pissed,” she declared after a moment, chewing her lip and pointedly ignoring the uneasy feeling settling in her gut.

“Won’t that be a sight,” Killian cringed, scratching behind his ear.

The brunette stormed in almost an hour later, her fiancé in tow much to their surprise (and her fury apparently).

She’d grabbed Emma by the arm as she stalked past and dragged her toward the farthest corner.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Emma?” she growled, green eyes flashing as she rounded on her.

Cringing, she ducked her head and worried her lip. “Looks like you already know…”

“Yeah, no thanks to _you_ ,” she whispered harshly, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at her friend. “A heads up would’ve been _great_ , you know. Even just a quick little ‘oh yeah, by the way, my brother’s joining our crusade, talk to you later’ would’ve been fine. But _no_ , instead I get ambushed.”

Emma nervously wet her lips and took a step closer. “You’re right, I should’ve been the one to tell you. I’m sorry.”

Mary Margaret deflated slightly at her apology. “We’re _supposed_ to be a team, Emma,” she said, barely masked hurt creeping into her voice.

“We _are_ , and now David is a part of that team too,” Emma assured, her lips quirking in a small smile. “Admit it, a part of you is glad to not have to keep this from him anymore.”

The other woman shrugged. “I guess. I’ve always felt guilty for lying to him about all of this.”

“So have I,” Emma admitted with a sigh. “Now we get to share it with him.”

“Yeah,” she said, returning the blonde’s small smile with one of her own before raising a teasing eyebrow. “Still would’ve been nice to be consulted, however.”

Emma sighed wearily and shrugged. “I really am sorry, Mary Margaret. I’m just so ready to _finish_ this; David wants to help us do that.”

Mary Margaret nodded and squeezed her shoulder. “Then let’s get to work.”

Killian and David, who were pretending to _not_ overhear their brief spat, were studying a folder with photographs and profiles and talking quietly. Upon their approach, they looked up and eyed the two of them warily.

“Everything okay?” Killian asked, cautiously eyeing the two of them.

Mary Margaret nodded and threw him a smile. “Everything’s fine. What are you two doing over here?”

“Killian was just helping me get up to speed,” David smiled, gesturing to the papers spread out on one of the table tops.

Killian shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I thought perhaps he could assist us in the search for another witness.”

“Great idea. We could definitely use all the help we can get on _that_ particular issue,” Emma sighed, throwing a small smile at her brother.

Killian is back typing away at his computer ten minutes later, David knee deep in their numerous files on Gold at the table next to him. Emma, on the other hand, had dragged Mary Margaret over to help unload the bags she’d brought with her, items ranging from gear they could use on future jobs to a simple restocking of their first aid kit (Emma pretended not to notice David’s curious perusal of said gear, knowing he’d ask where she’d gotten it and that was _not_ a question she wanted to answer right now).

David beckoned her half way through, his brow furrowed in confusion. She sat with him for the next hour as he combed through each file, answering any questions he had (comments ranging from “Who _is_ this, anyway?” to “Are you crazy, Emma, talking to this guy could get you _killed_.”)

“Hey, what about him,” David suggested, drawing Emma’s attention away from the orange sunset streaming in through the broken clock face.

Emma felt her stomach churn when her eyes found the name on the file. “What about him?” she asked evenly, averting her eyes again.

“He’s a part of Gold’s organization, probably has been for years given who he is,” her brother began, leaning in a little closer. “And after what you said happened the night of mom’s funeral…well, I think he might be our best option.”

Emma met his gaze again and chewed her lip. “You’re probably right, David, but— _I don’t know_. I mean, he’s Gold’s _son_ , and he seemed on good terms with him at that gala Killian and I crashed. What if we fail to convince him to help us and he tells Gold what we’re trying to do? It’ll ruin _everything_ we’ve been working toward.”

“I get what you’re saying, Emma, but at least _think_ about it before you write the idea off completely,” David urged, his blue eyes earnest.

She nodded reluctantly, chewing her bottom lip as she mindlessly toyed with the photograph clipped to his profile. “I’ll think about it.”

They called it a night about an hour later. Killian had taken a break from attempting to track down Tamara and had taken Emma’s place at the table beside David. Mary Margaret and Emma had finished unloading the new gear and were finishing up on taking stock of it all.

“And finally, we’ve got four 9mms, nine boxes of ammo, and three sets of Kevlar,” Mary Margaret stated, ticking off the items on the list in front of her.

Emma nodded and scanned the shelves one last time before turning her attention to her friend. “You think it’ll be enough?”

Mary Margaret shrugged distractedly, skimming her list one more time. “Depends on the plan, really. Have you even _heard_ from Jefferson recently?”

“I _did_ get this weird text shortly after Graham—,” she began, swallowing the last word, the event still too fresh to talk about. “I don’t know if it was from Jefferson but I can’t think of who else would’ve sent it.”

“Let me guess,” the brunette started, crossing her arms over her chest. “You have no way of contacting him, do you?”

Emma sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “You mean other than showing up at his bar or ‘secret base?’”

“What about Victor?” Mary Margaret suggested. “We know where he works, maybe we could call and ask him to set up a meet or get him a message?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It puts Victor at risk of being exposed and I doubt Jefferson would take kindly to that,” Emma grimaced, before shaking her head. “Look, _I’ll_ handle Jefferson. You keep an eye on _that_ one,” she said, nodding toward her brother.

Mary Margaret huffed a laugh and shook her head. “Easier said than done.”

Emma studied the other woman briefly, a furrow creasing on her brow. “Are you guys okay? You know, with…everything?”

“As good as can be expected, I guess,” she admitted with a shrug. “We’re working through it, though, don’t worry.”

“Easier said than done,” Emma echoed, forcing a smile onto her lips that was more tremulous than playful.

“Hey,” her friend said softly, taking a step closer to her, “We’re going to be _fine_ , okay? I _love_ David and he loves me. You don’t walk away from something like that without a fight.”

Emma swallowed thickly and nodded.

“That’s partially why he’s here, you know,” the brunette continued, stealing a glance at her fiancé, “He wants to understand. He’s hurt, of course, but you know David; complete and utter inability to hold a grudge and loyal to a fault.”

Emma nodded shifted her feet awkwardly. “Loyalty we don’t deserve.”

Mary Margaret smiled sadly and sighed. “You’re right. And that makes it even more precious.”

* * *

She’d gone through the data over and over again and each time she did, she realized how right her brother had been.

With Tamara missing in action, Neal Cassidy was their next best option.

Killian was going to hate this idea (she wasn’t too fond of it herself, truth be told).

But what choice did they have?

None that she could see. So, she spent the next couple of days asking around, studying his movements, his behavior. When she felt she had enough to make an informed decision, she presented it to the rest of the team.

“Absolutely not,” Killian declared, barely letting her finish.

“You didn’t even _consider_ it, Killian, come on,” she fired back somewhat irritably. “Do you think this decision was easy for me? _I’m_ the one that has a history with Neal, not you.”

“You have a history with Gold’s son? How on earth did _that_ happen?” Mary Margaret asked, her eye brows raised in surprise.

Emma sighed and averted her gaze uncomfortably. “He was one of my mom’s students. We, uh, met at her wake.”

“He _lied_ to you about who he was, Emma, how can you even _consider_ trusting him? Especially when he’s so close to his father,” Killian argued, the tips of his ears turning red with barely repressed anger.

“If you’ve got a better suggestion, I’d _love_ to hear it,” she challenged, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow at him.

He fumed in silence for a moment before sighing in frustration and shaking his head.

She sighed and took a step toward him. “Look I get it, I _really_ do. Neal is _far_ from my first choice, but right now, he’s the best one we’ve got.”

“The least we can do is look into it,” Mary Margaret offered, picking up the file filled with Emma’s research. “Come on, Jones, you can help me.”

Killian glared at the folder in her hand for a moment before nodding begrudgingly. “Lead the way,” he mumbled, a scowl twisting his lips.

“Thanks for the tip, bro,” Emma remarked once the other half of their team had walked away.

David shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Just trying to help.”

“You did. _Really_. Killian is just a bit…touchy when it comes to the Golds,” she said, chewing her bottom lip.

“What happened there, anyway?” her brother asked, glancing briefly in Killian’s direction, “I figured he was doing all of this because of you, but I see now that there’s more to it than that.”

“That’s not my story to tell, David, you’ll have to ask him,” Emma confessed, furrowing her brow as she considered the rest of his statement. “And what do you mean ‘because of me?’”

“You’re kidding, right?” David asked, huffing a laugh.

Emma looked between Killian and her brother for a moment, quietly considering his words—she rolled her eyes at him when his meaning suddenly became clear. “ _You’re_ kidding, right?” she choked, her stomach flipping at his suggestion. “Do you _honestly_ think that he would risk his life the way that he has solely because I asked him to?”

“Based on what I’ve seen? Definitely,” he stated matter-of-factly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “He’s head-over-heels for you, Sis. Probably has been since day one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she argued, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “‘Love at first sight’ was made for people like you and Mary Margaret, not people like me and Killian.”

“ _Oh_ , so you’re in love with him too, are you?” he teased, biting back a smile. “ _That_ sure is good to know.”

Emma glared at him, doing her best to fight the blush threatening to stain her cheeks (leave it to her big brother to make her feel like a silly little teenage girl again). “ _Shut up_. That is not what I said at all,” she hissed, glancing across the room to make sure their conversation hadn’t been overheard. “We have work to do, come on.”

* * *

The parking lot was packed for the middle of the week; it had taken her almost thirty minutes to find an open space to park her bug. “Let’s get this over with,” she muttered to herself, taking a steadying breath.

Wednesday, it appeared, was Ladies’ Night at The Rabbit Hole; the bar is so crowded, it had taken her almost twenty minutes just to get the bartender’s attention and even longer to receive an audience with Jefferson.

“My apologies for the wait, tonight’s a bit crazy, as you can see,” Jefferson drawled, the heels of his suede boots clacking against the white marble floor as he sauntered into the room. “What can I do for you?”

“I need your help,” Emma announced, not bothering to beat around the bush.

His perfectly-shaped eyebrows rose slowly in surprise. “Has the help I’ve provided thus far been somehow insufficient?”

“Not at all,” she assured, adjusting her position on the uncomfortable couch as he sat on the one across from her. “But I need something before we can proceed with the plan and things will go much more smoothly if you help me get it.”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment before responding. “When we made this arrangement, you lead me to believe you had a team of your own. Is there some reason they cannot assist you?”

Emma swallowed thickly and carefully considered her words. “Let’s just say that the situation is…delicate. We’re going to have one chance at this and if we miss it, this is over before it even starts.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate if you want my help,” he replied, rising from the couch and smoothing out his dark purple, three-piece. “Exactly what is it that you require?”

Her eyes followed him as he paced slowly around the room, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “I need to meet with someone under heavy guard, someone very well-trained that is likely to be against meeting with me. That’s where you come in.”

“And that someone is?” he asked, sounding almost bored as he turned to face her.

“Neal Cassidy,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.

He blinked at her in silence for a moment, biting back an amused smile. “What _is_ it with you and the Golds?” he chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Emma scoffed and rose to her feet, a mix of irritation and embarrassment prickling beneath her skin like fire. “Look, it doesn’t matter what my issue with the Golds is, what _matters_ is you holding up your end of the deal. Are you going to help me or not?”

“I’ve _been_ holding up my end, Sweetheart,” he retorted, his voice dangerously low, all traces of his amusement gone. “ _You’re_ the one that needs to start pulling their weight.”

 “You know I can’t hold up my end until I get inside Mills; _you’re_ supposed to help me do that,” she reasoned evenly. “If you _can’t_ , then maybe we just need to go our separate ways.”

His eyes narrowed as he slowly made his way back across the room. “I never said I _couldn’t_ help, I just didn’t say that I _would_.”

“Then I guess we’re done here,” Emma replied, a note of finality in her voice. “Nice doing business with you.”

She turned and strode purposefully to the door she knew led back out into the bar and grabbed the handle.

“Stop,” he called, stilling her hand.

She turned back toward him, crossing her arms and adopting an expectant expression.

“Tell me your plan and I’ll tell you whether or not I’ll help,” he offered sourly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

* * *

“I don’t like this,” Killian declared for the hundredth time as he handed her a comms unit.

“Noted,” Emma replied, slipping the device into her back pocket and gesturing to herself. “Now wire me up.”

His exasperated sigh tickled the side of her neck as he taped a small mic to the collar of her shirt and grumbled something about his equipment being wireless. “Remind me again why you’re going in as yourself?”

She sighed dramatically and shot Killian a look. “We’ve been over this: since we have a history, he’s more likely to respond positively to Emma than he is her vigilante counterpart.”

“And if he decides to come after her, he’ll know _exactly_ who to look for. Brilliant plan. _Really_ ,” he mocked, positioning her collar so the mic was hidden.

Emma studied him as she slipped an ear piece into her ear. “I know the risks, Killian. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m aware of that, love,” he admitted, retrieving her leather jacket from the table and helping her slip it on, “What I _don’t_ know is what this bloke is capable of. What if he’s just as bad as his father, if not _worse_? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.”

She’d been thinking about that night a lot the last couple of days, analyzing it almost to the point of insanity. She’d wondered why he’d come to pay his respects at all, why he’d felt the need to talk with her, to comfort her, to comfort _himself_. If he was just some heartless monster like his father, he wouldn’t have felt the need to do any of those things, right?

But he had.

“I guess we’re about to find out,” she said, straightening the collar of her jacket. “Wish me luck.”

Killian caught her hand in his before she could turn away. “ _Be_ _careful_ , Emma,” he said instead, his eyes pleading when she met them with her own.

“I will,” she promised, a forced smile on her lips.

He could see right through her, she knew, but he said nothing further, releasing her and watching as she walked away.

They're at Jefferson’s base again. His goons had met her out front and escorted her inside, past the eerie waiting room, through the twisting halls, and into a small room with naught but a two-way mirror. The figure on the other side of the glass made her heart leap into her throat.

_Neal_.

It wasn’t like she was surprised to see him (he’s the reason she was there, after all), but the simple fact that a piece of her past (and, possibly even the key to her future) was mere feet away was enough to throw her. He’d been cuffed to a chair, a bag thrown over his head as he struggled against his bonds and screamed about how he'd kill whoever was responsible for this.

Steeling herself, she turned to the two men behind her. “Wait here. Do _not_ come inside that room unless I instruct you otherwise. Do we have an understanding?”

They both nodded their assent, but not before the burly one she’d met on her last visit sent her a look that said he was clearly unamused that someone other than his boss was ordering him around. She raised a challenging eyebrow at him before moving back into the hallway, exhaling heavily as if the action would rid her of her nerves.

She entered the room a moment later, letting the door close loudly behind her. It seemed to take Cassidy a moment to realize he was no longer alone, his thrashing and verbal threats ceasing suddenly.

“What do you want?” he panted, his voice muffled somewhat due to the cloth covering his face.

Emma said nothing as she slowly moved around the table between them to stand behind him.

“ _What do you want_?” he repeated, her silence revealing his barely repressed panic.

She declined to answer again, instead grabbing the bag over his head and slowly pulling it off. She gave him a moment to take in his surroundings as she took a deep breath in an attempt to slow her frantic heartbeat.

“Do you have _any_ idea who you’re dealing with?” he yelled after a moment, trying to twist around in the chair to get a look at her.

“Of course I do. Why do you think you’re cuffed to a chair?” she answered evenly, sounding much calmer than she felt.

He tried twisting in the chair again at her question, letting out a frustrated groan when he failed once more to make eye contact with her. “Who the hell are you people? What _is_ this?”

“ _This_ is your chance to do the right thing,” she began, pacing the floor behind him. “ _This_ is your chance to help save this city and everyone in it.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I thought you said you knew who I was.”

“I do. Or, at least, I did,” she explained, the soft thunk of her footfalls reverberating throughout the small space.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She paused a moment, considering her options, before making her way back to the other side of the table.

“It means that I know who you _were_ , but not who you _are_ ,” she responded, keeping her back to him. “Perhaps you can help me with that.”

“You kidnapped me and cuffed me to a damn chair, lady, why would I help you with anything?” he argued, his cuffs clinking against the chair as he adjusted his position.

Emma took a steadying breath and slowly turned on her heel, schooling her features to appear more confident than she actually felt.

When she finally met his eyes, she could almost _feel_ the outrage rolling off of him. He gazed at her expectantly for a moment, waiting for her to answer his question. When he realized she wasn’t going to, at least verbally, he squinted at her. She resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably as he took her in, his familiar brown eyes paying particularly close attention to her face. It took a moment, but the recognition flared in his eyes, widening them in surprise.

“Emma?” he asked in disbelief, looking somewhat confused. “Is that really you?”

She nodded curtly and nervously wet her lips. “Long time, no see.”

“What’s this all about?” he asked, fear creeping into his voice.

“I think you know,” she answered softly, resolutely holding his gaze.

He swallowed thickly. “I really don’t,” he lied, suddenly hoarse.

“Then I’ll enlighten you,” she said, stepping closer to the table. “This is about your father.”

She could see a wall go up at the mention, the shock in his eyes fading somewhat (and, oddly, some of the fear). “My father’s a respected businessman,” he declared mechanically, as if he were reciting lines from a script.

“You and I both know that’s not true, Neal,” she countered, bracing her hands on the table and leaning closer to him.

He shrugged and flicked his eyes away from her. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“What I _want_ is for you to be honest with me. Unlike the last time we met,” she answered, her stomach turning at the memory.

His gaze immediately returned to hers at the accusation. “I never lied to you, Emma.”

“Maybe not outright,” she conceded, leaning a bit closer. “But a lie of omission is still a lie. You _knew_ your father was responsible for my mother’s murder and you said _nothing_.”

He scoffed at her words. “What should I have said? ‘Hi, I’m Neal and my dad had your mom killed, nice to meet you?’ Come on, Emma, be reasonable.”

“Okay fine, maybe I can’t blame you for not telling me about your father, but you still _lied_ to me about who you were,” she argued, pushing back the emotion welling within her “I trusted you and you lied right to my face. _You betrayed me, Neal_.”

He ground his teeth at her accusation, his eyes unreadable.

“You told me that night that my mother meant something to you, that she helped you— _prove it_. You couldn’t help her then, but you _can_ help her now,” Emma beseeched, praying there was at least one sliver of goodness still left in him, just one piece that his father hadn’t managed to smother out. “You owe my mother, Neal. You owe _me_.”

He studied her wordlessly for a moment; she saw something shift in his eyes, saw his shoulders tense.

“You’re right, I do owe you. But for far more than you realize,” he admitted, guiltily averting his gaze.

“What are you talking about?” Emma asked, pushing back the dread settling in her gut.

He sighed shakily and chewed his lip. “My father had your mother killed because of me, Emma, because of what _I_ told her.”

Silence fell between them and for a moment she let it. Shock and disgust warred within her as she struggled to process all this new information. For so long she’d been so focused on getting justice for her mother that she’d never really considered _why_ any of it had happened in the first place. For the moment, her mission was forgotten.

“ _What the hell did you tell her?_ ” she demanded, her anger burning like fire beneath her skin.

“Everything,” he began, his voice quavering. “About me, my father, what he does, what he’s made _me_ do…all of it. I just…I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

Emma backed away from the table and ran her fingers through her hair, annoyed by the tears beginning to shine in his eyes. 

“Why would you do that? Why would you unload that kind of information on a complete stranger?”

“Because she offered to listen,” he said simply, a small smile briefly forming on his lips. “It’s not like I had the easiest childhood, my dad being who he was...who he _is_.”

“Cry me a river, Cassidy,” she scoffed, bracing her palms against the tabletop once more. “Thanks to you and your horrible father, my childhood wasn’t so great either.”

He wet his lips nervously and warily met her eyes. “I’m _so_ sorry, Emma, I really am. You have to know I _never_ meant for anyone to get hurt, least of all you and your family.”

She glared at him, searching for any more lies in his words.

“That’s why you went to her funeral, isn’t it? To _appease_ your guilt,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. “Did it work, Neal?  Did taking advantage of me make you feel _better_? Did it help you move on?”

“It wasn’t like that, I swear,” he begged, shaking his head.

She scoffed and returned to her former position, crossing her arms over her chest. “Please enlighten me then, what _was_ it like?”

“I came to pay my respects to your mother, that’s all. I had no idea that what happened between us would happen, how _could_ I have?”

Emma shot him a half-hearted glare, her anger lessening somewhat when she realized he had a point. Silence blanketed the room once more as she took a moment to study him—his brown, pleading eyes were filled with sadness and remorse.

“I was a dumb kid who made a dumb mistake and every day I wish I could take it back,” he admitted forlornly. He squeezed his eyes shut and after a moment whispered, “There are a _lot_ of things I wish I could take back.”

She let him wallow for a moment, continuing to study him.

“ _Swan?_ ” Killian asked softly over the comms when the quiet stretched on for too long. “ _Everything alright in there?_ ”

She cleared her throat in lieu of a verbal response and knew he’d take it as a confirmation that she’d at least heard him.

Emma took a deep breath, summoning what remained of her composure. “You may not be able to change the past, but you _can_ stop it from happening again. Gold is just going to keep doing whatever he wants unless someone stops him—Unless _we_ stop him.”

“I can’t,” he claimed, shaking his head. “My father’ll kill me if I betray him.”

“Please,” she scoffed incredulously. “If that was the case, my mother would still be alive and we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

She could tell he was afraid, that his brain was frantically trying to come up with some other option— _any_ other option. “You don’t understand, I don’t have a choice,” he pleaded half-heartedly, still unable to meet her gaze.

“We _all_ have a choice, Neal, some are just harder to make than others,” she said, bracing her hands on the table again and leaning toward him. “ _This_ is one of those choices. You can choose to sit back and do nothing like a coward, to let your father to continue to have free reign over this city and its people, to mindlessly do his bidding. _Or_ you can choose to be brave, you can choose to step up and do what’s _right_ for once instead of what’s easy.”

Emma let silence fall between them yet again, giving her words time to sink in. When he simply continued his attempt to bore a hole into the table with his eyes, she sighed and went back to pacing around the small room.

“She probably knew who you were, you know,” she began casually, trying a different tactic. “When she offered to help you, I mean. She must’ve known it was a risk to reach out to you, but she chose to anyway and she paid for that decision with her life. And for what? For you to continue to make the same bad choices? If she really meant half as much to you as you claim, why _wouldn’t_ you want to help bring her killer to justice?”

Neal shifted uncomfortably in his chair, her words obviously having an effect on him.

And yet he still said nothing.

She sniffed a humorless laugh and shook her head at his continued silence. “I can’t believe my mother _died_ for a coward. What a waste.”

Turning on her heel, she took several steps toward the door, ignoring the disappointment churning in her gut; what the hell were they supposed to do now?

“Wait,” Neal uttered softly, sounding broken.

Emma halted her gait and slowly turned back toward him. “What?” she grated, glaring daggers at him.

“I’ll do it,” he croaked, hesitantly meeting her gaze. “I’ll help you.”

She tried to keep the renewed hope that swelled within her chest from showing on her face, not wanting to give him any idea of how much this entire plan suddenly depended upon him; the last thing she needed was him backing out at the last minute.

“Good,” she declared, signaling to the goons behind the two-way mirror.

“What happens now?” he asked nervously, swallowing thickly.

“What happens is you continue to keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll be in touch when the time is right.”

He looked sick at the thought of returning to his father with a secret like this, but instead of voicing this fact, he simply nodded.

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum entered the room a moment later, making a beeline for Neal. They pulled the bag back over his head, much to his chagrin, and freed him from the chair but not his bonds.

Her mind raced as she watched them lead him from the room; she hadn’t expected to get more from Cassidy than his agreement to help, let alone the reason for her mother’s murder. Making a mental note to pull together a list of things to ask him later, she too exited the room and headed back in the direction of the waiting room. Jefferson wasn’t there, she knew, no need to hang around.

She let the door slam loudly behind her upon her exit, the sound of her hurried footsteps against the pavement echoing down the alley as she made her way back to the van.

“You alright there, Swan?” he asked when she slid into the passenger seat beside him, his voice soft.

She nodded and forced another smile onto her lips before turning to look at him. “Right as rain.”

He studied her silently for a moment, his brow furrowed and a frown on his lips. Sighing, he turned the key in the ignition and turned his attention to the street before them.

"Quick question," he said, his tone now light as he slid the gear shift out of park. "Exactly how are we planning on contacting Cassidy without his information?"

Emma bit back a smile and halfheartedly rolled her eyes. "You're the computer wiz, Jones, you tell me."

He scoffed in mock indignation, shaking his head and muttering something about her taking him for granted. She chuckled at that, leaning back against the seat as the unease that had settled in her gut slowly melted away. She knew that they still had a long road ahead of them, that this was only one piece of a much larger puzzle but, for the first time in a long time, it felt like things might actually turn out alright and she'd hold onto that feeling for as long as she could.

**Author's Note:**

> Review (pretty please)?


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